UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

AT    LOS  ANGELES 


?r 


PIPPIN 


BY 


ARCHIBALD   MARSHALL 


" 


< 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1922 


Copyright  1922 
By  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  Inc. 


■ 


, . ,  < . 


PRINTED    IN    THE    U.    S.    A.    BY 

tCht   Ciitnn   X  ISottn   Companp 


BOOK       MANUFACTURERS 
RAHWAY  NEW     JERSEY 


6  OZS 


a, 


Q 


& 


*  To 

i 


G.  K.   Chestebton 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     Pippin  Goes  Off  to  See  the  World  .        .  1 

II     Pippin  Meets  the  Shepherds  and  Goes  to 

Breakfast .16 

III  Telling  How  the  Farmer  Brought  Home 

the  Priest .25 

IV  Pippin    Falls    in    with    the    Gentleman 

Tramp 36 

V     The     Story    of     the     Gentleman     Tramp        48 

VI     The     Story    of     the     Gentleman     Tramp 

(Continued)  .....         .62 

VII     Pippin    Meets    a    Poor    Shopkeeper    and 

Some  Rich  Ones 73 

VIII     Pippin  Spends  a  Day  with  a  Pedlar         .        88 

IX     The   Road  and  the   Field      .         .         .         .101 

X     Pippin  Walks  On  and  Meets  Many  Kinds 

of  People Ill 

XI  The  Old  Clergyman  and  His  Story   .         .122 

XII  Pippin    Goes    to    the    Circus    and    Has    a 

Passage  with   a  Lion-Tamer      .         .         .132 

XIII  Pippin  Sups  with  the  Ring-Master  .         .      146 

XIV  The  Last  Ride 156 

XV  Pippin  Joins  the  Circus        .         .         .         .166 

XVI  The  First  Halt 179 

XVII  Pippin  Plays  His  Part 191 

XVIII  The  People   of  the  Circus  .         .         .      203 

XIX  Pippin  Leaves  the  Circus     ....      219 

XX  Pippin  Acquires  a  Friend,  and  Walks  On     231 

XXI  Pippin  Hears   a    Tale    and    Gives   Advice      244 

XXII  The  Great  Musician 257 

XXIII  A  Close  Call 270 


vn 


viii  CONTENTS 

■  BAFTBB 

XX I V  Pippin  is   Preached  at 

XXV  Pippin  Works  and  Gets  Tired  of  It  . 

XXVI  Tin:   Gmat   City 

XXVII  One   Tavern    and   Another    . 

XXVIII  Pippin  Looks   for  Work  and  Finds  It 

XXIX  Pippin  Sees  It  Through 

XXX  Pippin    Starts    for    Home    and    Meets    an 
Old  Acquaintance       .... 

XXXI  Journeys  End 


PAGE 

282 

296 
309 

334 

337 

356 
369 


PIPPIN 


PIPPIN 

CHAPTER  I 

PIPPIN    GOES    OFF    TO    SEE    THE    WORLD 

Pippin  shut  to  the  house  door  and  stood  outside  in  the 
fresh  air  of  the  morning. 

It  was  very  early.  He  had  caught  the  world  half 
awake,  half  asleep.  The  grass  was  white  with  dew,  the 
shadow  of  night  still  clung  about  the  trees  of  the  orchard, 
the  birds  in  the  lilacs  were  only  twittering.  The  house 
behind  him  was  in  a  dead  sleep.  Its  deep  eaves  hung  over 
blinded  windows  and  no  breath  of  household  life  went  up 
from  its  chimneys. 

Pippin  opened  the  garden  gate,  and  let  it  fall  to  with 
a  clatter  behind  him.  He  threw  one  glance  back  at  his 
home,  old  and  warm  and  patient,  and  swung  off  up  the 
hill  with  the  strong  step  of  youth.  He  walked  fast  be- 
cause he  was  setting  out  to  see  the  world,  and  the  world 
won't  wait  for  }^outh,  although  age  finds  it  in  less  of  a 
hurry. 

As  he  strode  up  the  hill,  between  high  banks  starred 
with  primroses  and  crowned  with  budding  beeches,  the 
earth  suddenly  stretched  itself  and  woke  up. 

Some  men  and  women,  and  nearly  all  children,  who  live 
close  to  nature,  know  this  moment  when  the  earth  springs 
up  from  its  sleep,  although  most  miss  it,  and  cannot  tell 
why  the  birds  suddenly  begin  to  shout  in  chorus.     It  is  a 


2  rirriN 

little  lighter  than  it  was  a  minute  ago,  but  it  was  a  little 
lighter  then  than  a  minute  before.  What  has  happened? 
The  birds  know.  A  minute  ago  there  was  some  doubt  as 
to  whether  the  sun  would  really  rise  again.  Now  there  is 
nc  doubt  at  all.  There  is  at  least  one  more  jolly  day  to 
come  before  the  end. 

Young  Pippin  was  good  to  look  at  as  he  strode  up  the 
hill,  with  all  the  world  to  himself  and  life  in  front  of  him. 
His  fair  hair  curled  crisply,  his  eyes  were  blue  and  merry, 
his  face  freckled,  his  mouth  kind  and  sensitive.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  suit  of  rough  homespun.  He  carried  a  pack, 
and  a  stout  ash  sapling  with  a  natural  crook — none  of 
your  curved  handles  bent  with  steam  for  him ! — served  for 
swinging  to  his  stride  and  cutting  at  the  wayside  weeds. 
He  would  have  small  need  of  it  for  supporting  his  steps. 
But  a  good  honest  stick  is  company  for  a  man,  and  the 
hand  likes  it,  being  a  little  jealous  of  the  stout  work  com- 
mitted to  the  feet,  when  the  master  of  both  walks  abroad. 

When  he  had  paid  due  toll  to  the  promise  of  another 
day  with  a  quick  laugh  of  pleasure,  and  a  sniffing  of  the 
nostrils  at  the  virginal  keen  air,  he  fell  silent  and 
thoughtful  for  a  time,  looking  on  the  ground  as  he  walked. 
He  was  thinking  of  the  farewell  he  had  taken  of  his  old 
father  and  mother  the  night  before;  and  this  is  the  pic- 
ture his  memory  laid  out  for  him. 

On  either  side  of  the  deep  hearth  was  an  old  wooden 
chair,  with  arms  and  a  high  back  and  a  cushioned  seat. 
There  is  no  chair  like  a  wooden  chair  for  comfort  and 
self-respect  combined.  Our  fathers  knew  nothing  of  those 
big,  low,  heavily  padded  chairs  for  the  enjoyment  of 
which  you  must  give  up  your  will  to  rise  and  go  about 
your  business  if  the  spirit  moves  you.     Besides,  they  woo 


PIPPIN   OFF   TO    SEE    THE   WORLD        3 

you  to  sleep,  and  the  proper  place  for  sleep  is  a  bed, 
whether  of  hay  or  feathers. 

In  one  of  these  chairs  sat  Pippin's  father,  and  in  the 
other  his  mother,  for  the  best  part  of  the  day.  For  they 
were  both  old.  Pippin  was  the  child  of  their  middle-age. 
The  name  they  had  given  him  at  the  font  was  almost 
forgotten,  for  immediately  afterwards  they  had  given 
him  another.  He  was  like  a  red,  sweet,  juicy,  lusty 
apple  of  the  orchard ;  and,  out  of  all  the  foolish  names 
with  which  they  had  mocked  lovingly  at  his  helplessness, 
that  of  Pippin  had  clung  to  him  throughout  his  years. 

Pippin's  father  sat  hour  after  hour  by  the  hearth,  on 
which  the  great  logs  blazed  merrily,  or  flickered  on  their 
bed  of  grey  ashes,  their  fire  dying  down  like  the  fire  of 
his  life.  Out  of  all  that  he  had  done  and  desired  and 
fought  for,  there  remained  to  him  the  hearth  and  the  good 
roof  above  his  head;  a  little  food  and  a  little  sleep;  his 
old  wife,  whose  continual  presence  stirred  him  now  a  little 
less  than  her  absence  would  have  done;  his  long,  long 
thoughts  of  the  past,  so  clear,  so  wise,  and  so  fruitless ; 
and  his  son. 

When  Pippin  was  in  the  room  his  thoughts  left  the  fire 
in  which  he  saw  so  much,  and  followed  him.  His  son 
stood  for  everything  he  had  lost,  the  hope  and  the 
strength  and  the  passion  of  manhood.  He  was  the  fruit 
of  his  own  loins,  and  would  carry  on  in  himself  and  in  his 
children's  children  that  joyful  tussle  with  fate,  in  which 
a  man  is  beaten  before  he  enters  the  ring,  but  never  ad- 
mits it,  until  his  enemy,  having  let  him  play  for  a  while, 
robs  him  of  his  weapons  and  makes  an  end  of  him. 

Pippin's  mother  was  not  so  old  as  his  father  by  some 
years,  but  she  could  not  walk  without  help  and  sat  per- 


4  piptin 

force  in  her  chair  with  a  tabic  by  her  side  busying  her- 
self with  whatever  lay  to  her  hand.  She  beguiled  the 
long  hours  with  talk,  uttering  whatever  came  into  her 
mind,  as  is  the  way  with  women,  in  whom  a  seed  of  thought 
immediately  becomes  a  flower  of  speech,  but,  as  it  has 
had  little  time  to  germinate,  not  always  a  very  good  one, 
though  better  than  a  man's  would  be  if  forced  in  the  same 
way.  For  the  top  soil  of  a  woman's  mind  is  commonly 
productive,  but  you  must  dig  deeper  into  a  man's. 

So  the  old  woman  talked,  and  the  old  man  sat  silent. 
But  beneath  the  cover  of  her  chatter  there  was  experience 
as  deep  as  his.  She  had  been  his  willing  helpmate  through 
their  life  together,  and  the  things  that  he  had  desired  and 
worked  for  she  had  desired  and  worked  for  too,  not  that 
she  might  enjoy  them,  but  that  he  might.  She  had  gone 
through  pain  and  trouble  to  bear  him  the  child  in  whose 
begetting  he  had  known  only  delight.  Hers  had  been  the 
care,  and  hers  the  fears.  And  she  could  not  stay  herself 
with  the  thought  that  her  child  would  grow  more  like 
her,  for  the  older  a  son  grows  the  more  he  loses  that  part 
of  herself  which  his  mother  gave  him,  however  strong  the 
love  that  may  bind  them  together. 

The  old  woman  chattered  and  the  old  man  sat  silent, 
piling  up  mountains  of  slow  orderly  thoughts.  And  of 
the  two  perhaps  she  was  the  happier,  for  she  lived  more 
in  the  present,  and,  if  she  searched  in  the  cupboard  of 
her  mind  for  memories,  she  took  out  only  the  happy  ones 
and  let  the  bitter  lie.  This  again  is  the  way  of  a  woman, 
and  she  is  not  to  be  blamed  for  it. 

Well  then,  the  two  old  folk  sat  by  the  fire  after  their 
evening  meal,  and  their  son  sat  between  them,  or  walked 
up  and  down  the  length  of  the  room  as  he  talked.     For  he 


PIPPIN   OFF    TO    SEE    THE   WORLD        5 

had  something  very  serious  to  impart  and  was  all  astir 
in  mind  and  body  until  the  matter  should  be  settled. 

He  must  go  out  and  see  the  world.  That  was  the  end 
of  it  all.  Home  was  a  very  good  place,  but  a  young 
man  could  have  too  much  of  it.  This  he  wrapped  up  a 
little,  but  it  was  plain  what  he  meant.  The  spring 
pricked  his  blood  and  he  was  for  starting  at  once. 

It  took  him  a  long  time  to  say  it,  for  at  the  first  word 
of  leaving  home  his  mother's  fears  arose,  and  his  plea  was 
much  broken  by  her  complaints  and  reproaches.  Indeed, 
before  the  end  she  had  spoken  more  words  than  he 
had. 

First  of  all  she  lauded  his  home.  What  young  man 
had  a  better  one,  or  more  freedom  to  come  and  go  within 
its  confines? 

None,  said  Pippin.  It  was  a  very  pleasant  home  and 
he  would  come  back  to  it. 

"To  find  our  places  empty,  very  like.  Do  you  grudge 
your  old  father  and  mother  their  places  by  the  fire, 
Pippin?  All  the  rest  is  yours,  the  fields  and  the  woods  and 
the  barns.  You  are  as  good  as  master.  And  you  will 
only  have  to  wait  a  little  while  until  you  are  master  in 
name  as  well  as  deed." 

"I  do  not  want  to  be  master,"  said  Pippin.  "Nothing 
is  further  from  my  mind.  But  as  the  time  must  come — 
may  it  be  far  distant — when  I  shall  be,  I  must  see  the 
world  before  I  settle  down  in  this  little  corner  of  it." 

"I  have  lived  here  all  my  long  life,"  she  said,  "in  this 
house  or  my  father's — in  two  houses  and  the  same  beauti- 
ful country  all  my  years." 

"But  my  father  hasn't.  He  would  not  have  been  the 
man  he  is,  or  done  what  he  has  done,  if  he  had  not  seen 


6  r  i  p  p  i  n 

the  world  in  his  youth.  You  are  a  woman,  mother.  You 
don't  understand." 

"I  understand  this,"  she  said,  "that  a  man  always 
wants  some-  new  thing.  It  was  just  the  same  when  you 
were  a  child,  Pippin;  if  I  gave  you  one  toy,  which  you 
asked  for,  and  thought  to  have  a  moment's  peace,  ycu 
were  crying  for  another  before  I  had  time  to  settle  to 
anything." 

And  so  it  went  on  between  them,  the  old  man  sitting 
silent  looking  into  the  fire,  and  seeing  there,  perhaps,  pic- 
tures of  the  adventures  of  his  own  youth. 

But  when  his  mother  found  she  could  not  move  him  by 
argument  she  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him  and  cried, 
"Oh,  Pippin,  stay  with  us.  We  love  you,  and  we  shall 
keep  you  such  a  little  time.  In  a  few  years  at  most  you 
ma}'  go  where  you  will.  We  shall  not  be  here  to  stop 
rou." 

Pippin  was  moved  by  her  tears,  and  might  have  put  off 
his  purpose.  But  at  this  point  his  father  spoke,  in  his 
thin,  slow  voice. 

He  spoke  to  his  wife.  "Let  us  hear  what  it  is  that  he 
wants,"  he  said.  "And  he  must  speak  to  us  quite  plainly. 
Freedom  is  a  good  thing  for  a  young  man.  I  do  not 
blame  him  for  desiring  that." 

Then  Pippin  understood  two  things:  first  that  he  must 
speak  out  freely  all  the  discontent  that  had  been  growing 
in  his  mind  now  for  weeks  past,  even  at  the  risk  of  hurting 
those  whom  he  loved;  and  second,  that  if  his  mother  would 
hold  him  back  his  father  would  help  him  to  know  his  mind, 
wise  old  man  that  he  was,  and  with  something  to  show  for 
his  close  upon  eighty  years  of  experience. 

But  his  mother  broke  in.      "Freedom!"  she  echoed.      "I 


PIPPIN   OFF   TO    SEE    THE   WORLD        7 

tell  him  that  he  is  free  now,  in  the  house  and  on  the  land. 
Both  are  as  good  as  his  already,  and  will  be  his  very  own 
in  a  few  years,  when  we  are  both  gone." 

"He  is  not  yet  of  an  age  to  be  held  by  possessions," 
said  the  old  man.  "And  no  man  is  quite  free  who  is  tied 
to  a  house  and  land." 

"How  you  talk!"  said  his  wife  sorrowfully.  "It  is 
what  you  have  worked  for  night  and  day,  year  in  and 
year  out  ever  since  we  were  married." 

"Ever  since  we  were  married,"  the  old  man  acquiesced 
with  a  bend  of  the  head.  "Pippin,  do  you  not  value  what 
I  have  gained  for  you  by  the  toil  of  my  hands  and  my 
brain?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  cried  Pippin.  "I  love  my  home,  and 
yet  I  want  to  leave  it.     I  don't  know  why." 

"You  must  find  out  why,  if  we  are  to  give  our  consent 
to  your  going,"  said  his  father  drily.  "You  are  young 
yet,  but  you  are  old  enough  to  know  what  is  in  your  own 
mind,  and  if  you  do  not,  to  discover  it." 

"Well  then,"  said  Pippin  shamefacedly.  "I  find  life 
very  dull." 

"Dull!"  echoed  his  mother,  shrilly,  holding  up  hands  of 
horror.  "You  have  your  own  horse  to  ride.  You  are 
not  tied  to  any  work  that  you  need  do.  You  can  hunt 
in  the  winter  and  play  games  in  the  summer.  You  have 
friends  to  play  with,  boys  and  girls,  and  they  are  made 
welcome  here." 

"I  see  no  new  faces,"  said  Pippin. 

"Old  faces  are  better  than  new,"  said  his  mother. 

The  old  man  spoke  again,  holding  up  a  thin  hand  for 
silence.  "Now  listen,"  he  said.  "I  have  seen  this  com- 
ing ;  for  I  see  many  things,  though  I  do  not  stir  from  my 


8  PIPPIN 

chair  by  the  hearth.  Pippin,  von  have  everything  that 
a  man  can  desire,  and  yet  you  find  it  dull.      Why?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Pippin  after  a  pause.  "I  find  it 
dull,  but  I  don't  know  why." 

"Then  I  will  till  you.  It  is  because  you  have  not  won 
it  for  yourself.  If  you  had  you  would  cling  to  it,  as  I 
do  still,  though  I  am  very  old." 

Pippin  had  nothing  to  say  to  this.  He  only  knew  that 
the  good  house  in  which  he  had  been  born,  and  the  fair 
acres  around  it,  seemed  like  a  cage  to  him.  His  life 
weighed  heavily.  There  was  nothing  to  look  forward  to. 
lb  was  tired  of  play,  and  it  was  true,  as  his  mother  had 
said,  that  there  was  no  work  he  need  do  unless  he  liked. 
He  had  everything  that  he  ought  to  have  wanted,  and  he 
wanted  none  of  it.  But  for  the  old  folks,  how  gladly  would 
he  have  given  up  his  inheritance  and  gone  out  into  the 
world  to  make  his  own  way.  Anything  would  be  better 
than  this  life  of  stagnation,  which,  stretching  in  front  of 
him  through  illimitable  years,  now  seemed  insupportable. 

1 1  is  father  spoke  again.  "You  shall  go  away,"  he  said. 
"You  shall  go  away  for  a  year;"  with  his  hand  he  stilled 
his  wife's  cries  of  remonstrance;  "for  a  year  you  are  not 
to  come  back  for  any  reason,  and  you  may  stay  longer  if 
you  wish.  I  will  give  you  a  little  money,  but  not  enough 
to  keep  you  for  a  year.  You  must  work  for  your  living, 
in  any  way  that  pleases  you." 

"I  am  strong  enough,"  said  Pippin.  "I  can  do  that  if 
you  wish  it."  He  did  not  want  work  at  that  moment. 
He  wanted  freedom. 

"I  do  wish  it.  You  must  learn  to  value  what  I  have 
gained  for  you.  and  that  is  the  only  way.  I  tell  you  that 
you  are  a  fool  to  hold  it  so  lightly,  but  my  telling  will 


PIPPIN   OFF   TO    SEE    THE   WORLD        9 

not  mend  your  disease,  which  is  that  of  youth.  You 
want  to  see  the  great  city?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pippin. 

"Very  well,  then.  Go  and  see  it,  and  find  out  for  your- 
self that  if  its  streets  were  paved  with  gold,  as  foolish 
people  think  them,  they  would  not  be  worth  exchanging 
for  the  pleasant  acres  you  will  soon  call  your  own.  See 
the  crowds  of  people  who  live  there,  and  then  think  of  the 
faces  of  your  friends  whom  you  now  despise.  See  strange 
and  curious  sights,  and  learn  to  hunger  for  the  quiet  fa- 
miliar places.  Earn  your  bread  and  remember  the  plenty 
that  you  had  for  the  asking.  Go  where  you  will  and  do 
what  you  will,  and  find  out  that  a  man  without  a  tie  is  like 
a  kite  without  a  string.  I  do  not  blame  3Tou  for  not  know- 
ing these  things.  But  they  are  true,  and  that  you  must 
learn  for  yourself." 

Pippin  was  quite  prepared  to  accept  all  this  as  true; 
but  all  the  same  he  wanted  to  get  away. 

"You  must  take  the  road,"  his  father  went  on. 
"Travel  light  and  make  friends  with  all  sorts.  Hear 
what  you  can  of  the  lives  of  other  men  and  women." 

"That  is  what  I  want  to  do,"  said  Pippin  eagerly. 

"You  have  your  share  of  the  curiosity  of  youth,"  said 
his  father  drily;  "and  a  knack  of  sympathy.  You  will 
hear  stories,  and  you  must  try  and  profit  by  them.  Walk 
through  the  country  till  you  come  to  the  city,  and  walk 
back  again  when  your  time  is  up.  Never  care  about 
where  your  next  meal  is  to  be  found,  or  where  you  are  to 
lay  your  head  at  night.  You  will  get  most  out  of  your 
journey  in  that  way." 

And  now  Pippin  was  gay  and  excited  again.  His 
father  had  called  him  a  fool  and  gone  near  to  chiding 


10  PIPPIN 

him,  but  he  had  shown  too  that  he  know  what  a  young 
man  wanted.  To  walk  through  the  fair  country  in  the 
budding  spring,  to  meet  unknown  and  therefore  interest- 
ing people,  to  see  how  life  went,  away  from  this  quiet 
patch  of  country  soil,  to  eat  and  drink  and  sleep  where 
he  pleased,  and  in  a  new  place  every  time,  to  have  the 
desired  city  as  his  goal:  this  was  enough  for  him  at  pres- 
ent. What  should  come  after  could  wait.  "When  may 
I  set  out?"  he  asked. 

His  mother,  almost  weeping,  began  to  babble  of  clothes 
and  provisions  and  countless  preparations,  but  his  father 
cut  her  short. 

"Set  out  to-morrow  at  dawn,"  he  said.  "We  will  bid 
you  good-bye  to-night.  When  you  have  learnt  wisdom 
from  the  men  and  women  you  meet  on  your  travels,  a  little 
pity  and  perhaps  a  little  love,  come  back  to  us,  my  son. 
You  will  find  us  waiting  here  for  you,  if  you  do  not  put 
off  your  coming  too  long.' 


5> 


That  was  the  memory  Pippin  bore  with  him  as  he 
breasted  the  long  hill  between  the  primrose-studded  banks: 
two  old  people  by  the  hearth  by  his  home,  one  bidding 
him  go  forth  from  it,  the  other  pleading  with  him  to  stay; 
and  it  made  him  a  little  sad,  even  on  the  threshold  of  his 
adventure.  For  in  both  voices  he  had  heard  the  note  that 
comes  before  the  end,  and,  old  as  his  parents  were,  he  had 
never  yet  thought  of  them  as  ready  to  leave  him,  how- 
ever ready  he  might  be  to  leave  them. 

He  was  glad  that  it  had  not  been  necessary  to  tell 
them  that  he  had  meant  to  set  out  at  dawn  that  morning 
in  any  case. 

lie    came  to  the  crown  of  the  hill,  and  his  spirits  rose 


PIPPIN    OFF   TO    SEE    THE   WORLD      11 

again.  He  was  in  a  country  of  rolling  down,  grey-green 
on  the  chalky  ridges,  with  the  cloudy  purple  of  massed 
budding  trees  in  the  hollows,  and  little  farms  and  cottages 
sheltering  among  them,  here  and  there,  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach.  The  blue  sky  and  the  strong  upland  wind 
were  all  about  him,  and  he  stepped  out  bravely  down  the 
long  descent  of  the  curving  road. 

On  the  slope  of  a  hillside  a  mile  away,  flanked  by  ricks 
and  barns  and  a  dotted  orchard,  he  could  see  a  white 
house  with  a  red  roof,  and  he  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  it  as 
he  strode  down  the  broad  hedgeless  road,  until  he  dropped 
into  a  furrow  of  the  downs  and  lost  it  for  a  while. 

But  presently  he  came  up  to  the  house.  It  stood  very 
pleasantly,  its  shoulder  towards  the  sun  now  topping  the 
hill  which  sheltered  it  from  the  keen  easterly  winds.  A 
little  river,  crossed  by  a  hand-bridge  and  widening  below 
into  a  gravelly  ford,  ran  between  it  and  the  road.  Be- 
yond the  water  was  a  grassy  slope ;  and  a  long  white  pal- 
ing with  a  little  gate  in  the  middle  of  it  enclosed  a  garden 
which  the  flowers  of  early  spring  were  already  beginning 
to  make  gay.  There  were  clumps  of  daffodils,  many- 
coloured  primroses,  white  arabis  and  yellow  alyssum, 
modest  hepatica  and  violets,  and  a  shrub  of  daphne,  whose 
pink  flowers  are  braver  than  its  leaves.  Other  plants, 
more  lie-a-bed  than  these  early  heralds  of  colour,  were 
pushing  up  strong  tufts  of  green  in  the  borders,  and 
against  the  wide  porch  of  the  house  a  tree  of  japonica 
stained  the  white  wall  red. 

But  pleasanter  to  Pippin's  eyes  than  these  gathered 
signs  of  the  happy  spring  was  the  house-door  open,  and, 
framed  in  the  doorway,  the  figure  of  a  girl  looking  across 


12  pirriN 

the  flowers  and  the  grass  and  the  brook  to  the  white  road 
along  which  he  was  coming. 

This  was  his  cousin  Alison,  whose  grandfather  had  been 
cousin  to  iiis  own, — Alison,  whom  he  loved,  not  as  a  man 
loves  his  mistress,  hut  as  he  loves  the  sister  with  whom 
he  has  laughed  and  played  in  his  childhood,  with  perhaps 
a  little  love  of  another  quality  added,  because  they  have 
not  quarrelled  so  often. 

She  loved  him  too,  whether  as  a  brother  or  not  she  kept 
to  herself,  for  women  do  not  tell  those  things  until  they 
are  asked.  At  any  rate  there  was  no  more  than  sisterly 
regard  in  her  kind  brown  eyes  and  on  the  full  red  lips  of 
her  mouth  as  she  came  down  the  brick  path  between  the 
flower  beds  and  through  the  gate  to  meet  him. 

She  came  down  the  grassy  slope  to  the  little  bridge. 
The  wind  sliding  down  the  hill  caught  the  skirts  of  her 
dress  and  blew  them  about  her  straight  young  limbs. 
And  it  made  tiny  pennants  of  the  looser  locks  that 
crowned  her  broad  brow.  A  splendid  type  of  budding 
womanhood  she  was  as  she  leant  against  the  slant  of  the 
wind,  not  caring  for  it  at  all.  The  flesh  on  her  face 
was  firm,  and  her  soft  skin  seemed  to  glow  with  the  warmth 
of  sunlight.  She  had  been  bred  in  the  sun  and  the  wind; 
she  was  clean  and  sweet  and  supple ;  a  girl  to  delight  any 
man's  eyes,  even  the  eyes  of  a  brother. 

Pippin  came  on  to  the  bridge  to  meet  her,  and  they 
stood  together  leaning  against  the  rail,  in  full  view  of  the 
windows  of  the  house.  They  had  nothing  to  hide,  neither 
lover's  shame  nor  lover's  sweetness. 

"Alison!"  cried  Pippin.  "I  am  so  glad.  Why  are  you 
up  so  early?     Did  you  get  up  to  say  good-bye  to  me?'* 


PIPPIN    OFF    TO    SEE    THE    WORLD      13 

She  might  have  said  that  that  was  the  last  thing  in  her 
mind ;  that  she  had  risen  early  for  her  own  purposes, 
and  had  chanced  to  see  him  coming.  Many  girls  would 
have  said  that.  But  it  would  not  have  been  true,  and 
Alison  was  very  frank  and  truthful. 

"I  thought,"  she  said,  "that  if  you  went  away  this 
morning  you  would  go  very  early  and  by  this  road.  So  I 
eat  at  my  window,  and  when  I  saw  you  at  the  top  of  the 
hill  over  there,  I  dressed  and  waited  for  you." 

"That  was  like  you,  Alison,"  he  said.  "Of  course  I 
should  come  by  this  road — the  road  to  the  town — for  I 
must  get  to  know  men  and  women.  And  I  should  start 
at  dawn,  so  as  not  to  lose  a  moment  of  my  first  day.  You 
always  understand." 

She  looked  at  him  squarely,  her  eyes  limpid  and  search- 
ing.    "Do  they  understand?"  she  asked. 

"My  father  does.  He  told  me  to  go.  He  knows  that 
every  man  must  follow  his  desire,  whether  it  keeps  him  at 
home  or  drives  him  out  into  the  world." 

"Yes ;  a  man  must  follow  his  desire,  but  a  woman  must 
sit  still  and  wait  till  hers  comes  to  her." 

"Why,  Alison,  how  wise  you  have  grown  in  a  night! 
You  did  not  talk  like  that  when  I  told  you  of  my  plans 
only  yesterday." 

"Little  shreds  of  wisdom  often  come  to  one  in  the  night, 
Pippin.     I  suppose  your  mother  took  it  hardly." 

Pippin's  honest  face  clouded,  and  he  looked  down  at 
the  running  water.  "Yes,  she  did,"  he  said.  "She  is 
growing  old — I  never  thought  of  it  till  yesterday — and 
she  wants  to  keep  me  at  her  apron  strings." 

"Till  the  time  comes  when  she  wears  none.     It  is  the 


14  PIPPIN 

way  of  mothers.  You  must  not  think  too  much  of  it, 
Pippin.  You  will  have  a  merry  time,  in  spite  of  your 
mother's  tears." 

He  looked  at  her  doubtfully.  "You  mean  that  I  ought 
not  to  go,"  he  said. 

She  looked  away  from  him,  with  a  flush  on  her  cheek. 
"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  mean,"  she  said.  "If  you  must 
go,  you  must.  It  is  not  for  me  to  blame  you.  But  a 
man's  'must'  often  brings  grief  to  a  woman.  Their  ways 
are  not  the  same." 

His  gaze  rested  on  her,  still  doubtful.  She  met  it,  and 
her  mood  changed,  April-wise.  "That  is  all,  dear  Pip- 
pin," she  said,  smiling  at  him,  though  her  eyes  were  a 
little  moist.  "I  came  out  to  wish  you  good  luck  and  the 
best  of  journeys.  I  don't  feel  bitter  about  your  going — 
not  at  all.  You  will  come  back  and  find  us  all  just  the 
same.     And  oh,  how  glad  we  shall  be  to  see  you !" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ought  to  go  after  all,"  he  said. 

She  gave  a  little  clear  laugh.  "Of  course  you  must 
go,"  she  said.  "I  will  not  keep  you  a  moment  longer. 
See  all  that  you  can.  Be  kind  to  old  people  and  poor 
people,  and  women  and  children;  but  I  know  you  will  be 
that.  It  is  what  you  do  for  others  that  will  teach  you 
things,  not  what  you  do  for  yourself.  There!  That  is 
another  little  piece  of  wisdom  that  came  to  me  in  the 
night.  Take  it  with  you,  Pippin.  It  is  the  parting  gift 
of  your  friend  Alison." 

Her  eyes  were  more  than  a  little  moist  now,  and  his 
were  soft  as  he  looked  into  her  brave  clear  face.  "I  will 
remember  that,  dear  Alison,"  he  said  gravely.  "I  need 
not  go  just  yet,"  he  added,  as  she  held  out  her  hands  to 
him  again  with  a  gesture  of  farewell. 


PIPPIN   OFF   TO    SEE    THE   WORLD      15 

"Yes,  go  now,"  she  said.  "When  you  have  something 
in  front  of  you,  don't  linger.  But  tell  me  one  thing. 
Was  it  only  because  this  road  leads  to  the  town  that  you 
came  by  it  this  morning?" 

"That  was  the  reason,"  he  said  stupidly.  "The  other 
leads  to  the  sea." 

"Well,  good-bye,  Pippin,"  she  said,  with  a  little  sigh, 
"and  don't  forget  the  people  of  your  little  world  when  you 
find  the  big  one.     We  shall  always  be  thinking  of  you." 

So  a  second  time  he  was  bidden  to  fulfil  his  purpose, 
and  at  once.  He  went  off  long  along  the  chalky  road  into 
the  eye  of  the  sun.  Three  times  he  turned  back  to  look 
at  her  standing  on  the  bridge  with  hand-shaded  eyes. 
When  he  had  topped  the  hill  and  waved  her  a  last  fare- 
well, she  turned  too,  and  went  up  the  grassy  slope,  through 
the  little  white  gate,  and  along  the  brick  path  between  the 
flower-beds  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  II 

PIPPIN    MEETS    THE    SHEPHERDS    AND    GOES 
TO    BREAKFAST 

On  these  rolling  downs  innumerable  sheep  were  feeding. 
It  was  now  the  heart  of  the  lambing  season.  The  winds 
had  been  keen,  but  there  had  been  little  rain,  and  ewes  and 
lambs  alike  were  strong  and  healthy.  Pippin's  practised 
eye  marked  them  with  pleasure  as  they  moved  over  the 
short  grass  in  pairs,  the  big  mothers  with  their  load  of 
fleece,  and  the  little,  white,  long-legged  lambs  with  their 
innocent  faces,  never  far  away  from  the  source  of  their 
life. 

The  ewes  would  stand  to  look  at  him  as  he  passed  by  on 
the  road,  bleating  a  warning  message  to  their  lambs  if 
they  should  be  more  than  a  yard  or  two  away;  and  the 
lambs  would  look  up  at  him  too,  with  more  confidence,  and, 
it  really  seemed,  with  some  curiosity. 

What  was  this  tall  creature  with  no  wool  on  its  body, 

moving   along   on    that   hard   place   where   there   was    no 

grass,  and  never  turning  aside  to  crop  any?     No  lamb, 

certainly,  and  if  a  grown  sheep  then  a  very  poor  sort  of 

one,  with  none  of  the  habits  or  qualities  which  made  of  a 

sheep  the  chief  being  in  the  universe.      Useful,  perhaps, 

if  a  lamb  should  find  itself  lying  on  its  back  in  a  deep  rut 

ntid   unable  to  move.     Then  a  mother  could  do  nothing 

but  bleat,  not  even  give  a  prod  of  the  nose  to  help;  but 

one   of    these   rather  suspicious-looking   creatures   would 

come    along — they    were    always    about    with    their    long 

16 


PIPPIN    MEETS    THE    SHEPHERDS      17 

crooks— and  have  you  out  in  a  trice,  glad  enough  to  have 
legs  once  more  to  get  away  from  it  as  quickly  as  possible. 

What !  Those  ridiculous-looking  creatures,  who 
couldn't  even  bleat  properly,  on  a  higher  level  than  that 
of  lambhood  and  sheephood?     Nonsense! 

What!  Lambs  brought  into  the  world  with  immense 
care,  and  given  great  tracts  of  grass  to  eat  and  play 
over,  so  that  their  wool  could  afterwards  be  stolen  from 
them  to  clothe  these  monsters,  who  could  also  kill  the 
finest  lamb  that  was  ever  born,  without  a  tear  of  shame, 
and  eat  its  flesh  with  as  much  pleasure  as  the  lambs 
sucked  the  milk  of  the  ewes?  Absurd!  If  you  feel  merry, 
leap  and  skip  among  the  daisies.  Don't  amuse  yourself 
with  such  follies  as  those! 

A  little  way  from  the  road  on  a  slope  facing  south  was 
a  large  railed-in  enclosure,  and  a  shepherd's  hut.  Pippin 
stepped  across  the  turf  to  give  good  morning  to  two  shep- 
herds who  were  standing  over  a  wattled  pen.  They  were 
the  first  men  he  had  seen  that  morning,  and  it  was  an  hour 
since  he  had  said  good-bye  to  Alison  on  the  bridge. 

The  shepherds  had  taken  a  dead  lamb  from  a  ewe. 
Another  ewe  they  had  robbed  of  a  twin  day-old  lamb. 
They  had  dressed  the  living  lamb  in  the  skin  of  the  dead 
one,  and  the  business  in  hand  was  to  make  the  mother 
believe  it  was  her  own,  and  suckle  it. 

The  poor  creature,  but  a  year  old,  and  already  a  prey 
to  the  cares  of  motherhood,  wanted  her  little  one,  but 
could  not  be  sure  that  this  was  it.  The  lamb,  troubled 
by  no  such  doubts,  ran  after  her,  bleating  piteously,  a 
grotesque  figure  in  its  trailing  cloak.  She  nosed  it  curi- 
ously and  seemed  to  be  half-satisfied,  but  when  it  poked 
its  nose  under  her  fleece  in  search  of  the  desired  suste- 


is  pirriN 

nance  she  was  off  again,  knocking  it  over  as  she  went,  with 
no  trace  of  the  care  she  would  have  shown  to  her  own  off- 
spring. It  was  her  own  and  not  her  own.  She  was 
seized  alternately  with  a  mother's  anxious  tenderness  and 
a  mother's  terror  of  loss. 

At  last  the  men  drove  the  lamb  into  the  pen,  and  the 
ewe  after  it.  They  hemmed  her  in  a  corner  and  held  her 
from  moving  while  the  lamb  drew  its  nourishment,  its 
forelegs  doubled,  its  tail  shaking  with  a  frenzy  of  satis- 
faction. She  stood  quiet  for  a  time  and  then  broke  away, 
but  was  driven  back  again.  At  last  she  stood  quiet  of 
her  own  accord  and  the  lamb  was  fed. 

"She'll  take  to  it,"  said  Pippin,  leaning  over  the  rail- 
ing, as  the  sheep  regained  her  freedom. 

The  shepherds  moved  away.  One  of  them  was  old  and 
bent  and  grizzled.     The  other  was  a  lad. 

"The  first  we've  lost  yet,"  said  the  boy.  "  'Tis  a  good 
year." 

The  old  man  said  nothing.  He  had  trodden  the  downs, 
by  day,  and  often  by  night,  ever  since  his  childhood,  so 
long  ago  that  he  had  forgotten  what  it  was  like  to  be 
young.  He  knew  the  ways  of  the  weather,  what  was  do- 
ing between  the  clouds  and  the  winds,  and  what  preparing 
in  the  starry  hollows  of  the  sky.  He  could  tell  the  time 
better  than  a  clock,  and  the  day  of  the  month,  if  not  of 
the  week.  The  faces  of  the  sheep  were  as  distinct  and 
various  to  him  as  the  faces  of  men.  He  knew  every  one 
of  the  thousands  under  his  care.  With  his  helpers  he 
counted  them  over  every  day,  and  sometimes  twice  a  day. 
He  could  not  tell  one  letter  or  one  figure  from  another, 
but  he  could  count  a  flock  of  sheep,  pouring  in  a  huddled 
scurrying   mass    through    a   gate,    infallibly.      He   was    a 


PIPPIN   MEETS   THE    SHEPHERDS      19 

mine  of  curious  lore,  which  he  lacked  the  power  to  im- 
part. He  was  immeasurably  wise,  and  immeasurably 
ignorant.  His  shabby  prick-eared  dog,  with  its  eye  al- 
ways on  his  gnarled  face,  was  his  familiar.  He  spoke 
to  it  by  signs,  and  it  would  be  off  and  away  in  obedience 
to  a  motion  which  a  man  could  scarcely  distinguish. 

To  men  he  spoke  seldom.  He  did  not  speak  to  the  hills 
and  the  sky,  and  they  were  his  companions.  They,  and 
the  sheep,  spoke  to  him,  and  he  heard  them;  but  they 
spoke  another  tongue.  His  understanding  of  men's 
speech  was  rusted,  by  long  years  of  solitude. 

On  the  face  of  the  youth  the  same  stamp  of  taciturnity 
had  already  set  its  mark.  But  for  him  there  was  still  a 
world  apart  from  the  silent  world  of  the  downs,  whose 
silence  he  was  slowly  learning  to  be  resonant  with  life, 
full  of  sound  and  movement  to  one  whose  ears  were  at- 
tuned to  it.  There  were  girls  to  love  and  boys  to  laugh 
with,  games  to  be  played,  rare  holidays,  mighty  meals 
to  be  devoured  in  good  company,  rough  music,  with  danc- 
ing and  kissing  on  the  green.  The  world  of  striving  men 
and  women,  laughing  and  crying,  always  hoping,  always 
suffering  disappointment,  was  still  part  of  his  world,  and, 
on  the  threshold  of  that  other  world  of  silence  and  slow 
endurance,  he  could  still  find  words  to  speak  of  it,  still 
give  a  welcome  to  those  who  knew  it  not. 

And  yet  the  life  of  the  ancient  man  who  had  outgrown 
the  need  of  human  companionship,  of  the  youth  whose 
face  was  set  on  that  road,  and  of  Pippin,  eager  for  the 
life  of  strife  and  action,  were  of  the  same  weft.  All  must 
set  out  to  know ;  and  the  old  man,  whose  deep  knowledge 
was  not  of  books,  nor  taught  of  men,  but  of  the  secrets 
of  nature,  had  fulfilled  his  being  in  a  way  not  given  to 


20  PIPPIN 

many.  For  his  knowledge  was  locked  up  in  his  mind  and 
would  die  with  him,  but  who  could  say  that  it  would  die 
utterly  in  the  sum  of  things,  since  God's  pleasure  it  is  to 
be  prodigal,  and  yet  to  waste  nothing. 

There  was  a  shout  behind  them,  and  Pippin  turned  to 
see  the  master  of  the  farm  coming  across  the  turf.  He 
was  a  tall  powerful  man,  straight  and  free-moving.  The 
hair  under  his  felt  hat  was  slightly  grey,  his  face  was 
weathered  to  a  ruddy  tan,  and  two  rows  of  very  white 
teeth  gleamed  in  the  midst  of  it.  He  might  have  been 
forty  years  old,  or  ten  years  older  than  that,  or  even  ten 
years  younger.  Such  men  as  he  age  so  slowly  that  they 
seem  to  stand  still.  They  take  up  their  manhood  when 
their  beards  begin  to  sprout,  and  hold  it,  almost  unchang- 
ing, until  suddenly  they  are  old  men;  and  their  age,  too, 
they  hold  so  lightly  that,  suddenly  again,  they  are  broken 
up  and  laid  aside  until  the  end  comes.  Their  life  is  the 
same  at  seventy  as  at  twenty,  and  but  for  their  children 
and  afterwards  their  grandchildren  growing  up  around 
them  they  would  be  almost  without  signs  to  mark  the  pas- 
sage of  the  years. 

There  was  no  taciturnity  about  this  farmer.  He  was 
a  very  hearty  talkative  man,  glad  enough  to  exchange 
words  with  a  stranger  and  give  his  tongue  the  exercise 
that  it  sometimes  lacked  on  these  bare  uplands.  He  eyed 
Pippin  in  a  friendly  manner  as  he  gave  him  good  morn- 
ing, and  asked  where  he  had  come  from. 

"Ah !"  he  said,  when  he  had  received  an  answer,  "that 
is  a  country  I  was  never  in,  though  I  have  heard  my 
father  talk  of  the  wonder  of  its  trees  of  fruit.  But  he 
has  been  dead  these  thirty  years,  and  was  always  a  bit  of 
a  gad-about,  the  good  old  man." 


PIPPIN    MEETS    THE    SHEPHERDS      21 

Pippin's  home  was  but  nine  miles  off  by  the  winding 
road,  but  the  steep  hills  lay  between  that  country  and 
this,  and  they  used  different  towns  for  their  marketing. 

The  farmer  took  out  of  his  coat  pocket  a  big  bottle  on 
which  a  label  announced  that  it  held  some  man's  celebrated 
sloe  gin.  But  it  had  nothing  stronger  in  it  than  warm 
gruel,  which  the  farmer  had  fetched  from  his  home  for 
the  sake  of  a  ewe  whom  the  pains  of  labour  had  well-nigh 
made  an  end  of. 

She  stood  in  another  wattled  pen,  her  newly  born  twin 
lambs,  bleating  and  uncared  for,  on  the  grass  by  her 
side.  The  farmer  seized  her  muzzle  in  his  hands  and 
forced  down  her  throat  the  strengthening  medicine.  She 
struggled  half-heartedly,  but  presently  she  had  swallowed 
it,  and,  its  comfort  running  through  her,  began  to  tend 
her  little  ones,  turning  her  attention  first  to  one  then  to 
the  other,  patient  of  the  double  burden  nature  had  laid 
upon  her.  It  is  so  with  mothers.  They  bear  what  is 
sent  them  and  glory   in  their  cares. 

"Now  you  have  had  your  breakfast,  old  gossip,  we  will 
go  and  have  ours,"  said  the  farmer.  He  gave  some  direc- 
tions to  the  two  shepherds,  and  moved  off  again  quickly, 
Pippin  walking  by  his  side.  In  that  hospitable  country 
a  traveller  becomes  a  guest  with  no  bandying  of  words, 
and  Pippin  was  glad  enough  to  follow  his  host,  for,  though 
he  had  bread  and  meat  in  his  pocket,  breakfast  is  a  meal 
at  which  warmer  cheer  is  welcome,  and  one  which  is  best 
eaten  at  a  well-laid  table.  And  he  had  been  walking  for 
over  two  hours,  and  was  sharp-set. 

On  the  other  side  of  a  ridge,  half  a  mile  away  from 
the  sheep  folds  lay  the  farmer's  house  of  grey  stone,  with 
a  steep  roof  of  thatch.     They  approached  it  from  behind, 


22  r  i  p  r  i  n 

and  the  grass  ran  right  up  to  the  door.  What  garden 
there  was  could  not  be  seen  from  here,  and  the  house 
looked  bleak  and  windswept,  though  the  deep  thatch  and 
the  morning  smoke  gave  promise  of  warmth  and  comfort 
within. 

The  promise  was  amply  fulfilled,  as  the  farmer,  always 
talking,  led  the  way  into  a  great  stone-flagged  kitchen, 
of  which  the  roof  was  hung  with  fat  hams  swathed  in 
sacking,  and  the  walls  gleamed  with  polished  metal.  The 
farmer's  wife,  a  stout  comely  woman  with  a  smiling  face, 
stood  by  a  big  table  with  a  rough  white  cloth,  upon  which 
the  dishes  were  already  smoking;  and  round  about  it  were 
ranged  a  family  of  children  from  twelve  years  of  age 
downwards,  boys  and  girls,  rosy-cheeked,  bright-eyed,  a 
pretty  bunch  of  strong-growing  human  flowers,  of  which 
any  parent  might  be  proud. 

"Here's  a  stranger,  mother,  come  from  the  country  over 
the  hills,  and  been  travelling  on  his  own  legs  since  the 
sun  was  up.  He'll  empty  a  plate  quicker  than  you  can 
fill  it,  I'll  warrant;  but  there's  enough  for  all,  and  if  not, 
the  children  can  go  without  for  once." 

A  look  of  dismay  spread  itself  over  the  smiling  faces 
of  the  children,  but  gave  way  to  open  merriment  as  they 
took  the  jest,  one  after  the  other,  the  eldest  boy  leading, 
and  the  two-year  old  baby,  clinging  to  its  mother's  skirt, 
closing  the  chorus.  Life  was  a  merry  thing  in  this  kind 
home,  and  with  such  a  father,  even  for  a  two-year  old,  who 
could  laugh  at  what  others  laughed  at  and  need  not 
trouble  to  find  a  reason  for  laughter  beforehand. 

Pippin  took  the  baby  and  tossed  it  in  his  strong  arms. 
They  appeal  to  kindly  youth,  these  little  creatures,  with 
their   self-protecting    confidence,    and   pretty    unexpected 


PIPPIN    MEETS    THE    SHEPHERDS      23 

ways.  The  good  wife  beamed  on  him,  and  the  older  chil- 
dren took  him  at  once  into  their  fellowship.  Presently 
he  sat  down  to  a  great  plateful  of  eggs  and  bacon  and 
fried  potatoes,  with  a  hunch  of  home-made  bread,  well 
buttered,  and  steaming  bowls  of  coffee;  and  for  a  time 
only  the  farmer's  voice  was  heard,  who  seasoned  all  good 
things  with  talk,  when  there  was  anybody  to  listen  to  him, 
only  ceasing  when  his  head  was  on  the  pillow.  Hard 
work,  good  food  and  sound  sleep,  with  his  wife  to  aid  his 
welfare,  and  his  children  for  playfellows:  that  was  his 
life. 

There  was  one  child  of  the  bunch,  a  little  boy  of  per- 
haps five  years  old,  who  seemed  to  be  his  father's  partic- 
ular pet  and  plaything;  for  he  sat  beside  him  at  the  end 
of  the  table,  plying  a  busy  spoon,  and  every  now  and 
again  the  good  man  would  look  down  at  him  and  pass  his 
hand  over  his  smooth  shaven  poll.  "The  little  priest," 
he  called  him.  "A  tiddy  bit  for  my  little  priest,"  he 
would  say,  and  put  some  dainty  morsel  on  the  little  child's 
plate.  And  the  child,  who  had  indeed  something  of  the 
solemn  detached  look  of  those  who  feel  their  minds  on 
great  mysteries,  would  take  it  gravely,  and  eat  it,  looking 
in  front  of  him  out  of  big,  round  eyes. 

"Why  do  you  call  him  the  little  priest?"  asked  Pippin 
presently,  for,  although  with  his  more  alert  mind  he  saw 
some  conformity  in  the  name,  he  did  not  suppose  that  the 
child's  father,  whose  understanding  was  little  above  that 
of  a  peasant,  used  it  for  any  subtle  reason. 

There  was  a  stir  of  expectation  round  the  table. 
"What !"  exclaimed  the  farmer.  "Have  you  never  heard 
of  how  I  brought  home  the  priest?  Isn't  that  story  told 
in  your  parts?" 


24,  P I  p  r  I N 

"No,"  said  Pippin.      "I  never  heard  it." 

"Well,"  said  the  farmer,  "it  is  plain  that  you  live  very 
much  out  of  the  world.  But  it  is  five  years  since  it  hap- 
pened, and  I  should  have  thought  it  was  common  property 
by  this  time." 

"Let  me  have  it,"  said  Pippin.  "A  good  story  carries 
a  man  far,  and  it  is  true  that  I  have  lived  a  good  deal  out 
of  the  world." 

The  farmer  gathered  together  the  fragments  that  re- 
mained on  his  plate  and  put  them  into  his  mouth.  Then 
he  drained  his  cup.  And  then  he  gave  a  great  laugh.  "I 
don't  know  that  I  can  tell  it  as  well  as  it  deserves  to  be 
told,"  he  said. 

But  it  was  plain,  from  the  eager,  grinning  faces  of  chil- 
dren and  the  complacent  smile  of  the  good  wife,  that, 
in  their  opinion  at  least,  half  the  merit  of  the  story  lay 
in  his  telling  of  it,  and  without  further  excuse  he  em- 
barked on  the  tale  of  how  he  brought  home  the  priest. 


CHAPTER  III 

TELLING    HOW    THE    FARMER    BROUGHT    HOME 
THE    PRIEST 


ct 


You  must  know,"  said  the  farmer,  laying  his  hand  on 

the  head  of  the  child,  "that  when  this  little  chap  here  was 

born,  my  good  wife  was  very  near  leaving  this  world  for  a 

better  one.     All  the  others  had  come  easy,  and  in  the  way 

of  nature,  and  but  for  the  lying  up,  and  things  at  sixes 

and  sevens  in  the  house  and  about  it,  from  the  want  of  the 

mistress's    eye,   'twas   nothing  but   a   warm  welcome   for 

another  little  one,  and  no  trouble  of  it  at  all. 

"Well,  the  wise  woman  was  here  in  due  time,  who  knows 

the  road  by  which  a  child  comes  into  the  world  as  well  as 

any,  and  an  easy  road  it  was  to  this  house,  as  she  told  us. 

She  was  a  merry  soul  and  knew  how  to  keep  up  a  woman 

in  what  it  is  given  to  women  to  go  through,  both  with 

cheering  words  and  clever  comforting  ways.     Food  and 

drink  she  loved  at  the  proper  times,  and  stint  of  them 

was  what  she  couldn't  bear,  though  in  houses  where  she 

knew  living  was  hard  she  would  share  with  the  rest  and  no 

words  about  it.     Everywhere  she  did  her  best — a  good 

woman,    and    knew    more    about    birth    and    death    than 

most. 

"There  was  no  lack  of  the  good  cheer  she  loved  in  this 

house,  and  whether  it  was  that  she  took  too  much  pleasure 

in  it,  which  I  don't  say,  for  it  was   not  her  habit  when 

duty  was  to  be  done,  or  whether  she  was  a  trifle  careless 

over  what  had  always  gone  so  well  that  you  might  say 

25 


26  PIPPIN 

there  was  little  for  her  to  do,  or  whether  it  just  came  so 
from  none  of  her  fault,  I  don't  know,  but  about  half  past 
ten  at  night  as  I  was  sitting  in  front  of  this  very  fire,  in 
that  chair  you  see  there,  in  she  bounced  with  a  white  face 
and  called  out,  'You  must  go  and  fetch  the  doctor  at 
once.' 

"I  was  up  out  of  the  chair  as  quick  as  ever  you  saw. 
I  won't  say  but  what  my  eyes  had  been  shut,  for  by  nine 
o'clock  I  am  used  to  be  under  the  bedclothes ;  and,  not 
looking  for  anything  unusual,  you  understand,  I  was  not 
as  wrought  up  as  you  might  say  a  good  husband  ought  to 
be,  with  his  wife  in  labour. 

"  'Take  a  cart',  she  said,  'and  bring  the  doctor  back 
with  you,  drunk  or  sober,'  and  with  that  she  was  out  of 
the  room  again,  and  had  never  so  much  as  looked  at  what 
was  spread  out  on  the  table  for  her,  ready  for  when  all 
should  be  over. 

"By  that  I  saw  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  go  off 
as  quick  as  might  be.  There  was  no  love  lost  between  the 
doctor  and  the  wise  woman.  She  took  the  bread  out  of 
his  mouth,  he  said ;  but  it  wasn't  bread  he  would  ever 
complain  of  missing  where  there  were  strong  spirits  to  be 
had,  which  it  was  the  common  talk  he  lived  on,  and  could 
swallow  as  much  in  a  day  as  would  lay  you  or  me  up  if  we 
took  a  week  over  it.  He's  dead  now,  and  I  won't  say  he 
drank  himself  to  death,  because  that  wouldn't  be  right  of 
a  man  who  has  gone  where  everything  that  can  be  said  for 
him  will  be  said.  But  if  it  wasn't  so  I  don't  know  any- 
thing, nor  the  coroner's  inquest  either.  But  this  I  can 
say  for  him  with  a  clear  conscience:  he  was  as  good  a 
doctor  as  any,  and  even  when  he  was  in  liquor  there  was 
few  to  beat  him  for  quickness  and  cleverness.      So  he  was 


THE    FARMER    AND    THE    PRIEST      27 

much  thought  of,  in  spite  of  his  weakness,  and  he  had  a 
way  with  him  too  that  you  couldn't  help  but  look  over  it. 
There's  no  man  but  has  his  fault,  and  you've  no  call  to  be 
harder  on  another's  than  you  are  on  your  own. 

"I  put  to  the  mare  in  double  quick  time,  and  felt  lower 
in  spirit  every  strap  I  buckled.  But  that  I  needn't  talk 
of,  nor  of  what  I  thought  as  I  drove  off  over  the  hill  on  a 
wild  snowy  night.  I  wished  half  a  dozen  times  I  had  gone 
up  to  have  a  look  at  the  good  wife  there,  and  said  good- 
bye, in  case  it  was  too  late  to  say  it  when  I  came  back. 
But  then,  again,  I  thought  I  might  have  wasted  a  minute 
or  two,  and  life  and  death  sometimes  hangs  on  a  minute. 
And  with  that  I  hurried  up  the  mare  and  pushed  on  in 
the  teeth  of  the  wind. 

"I  was  doubtful  how  the  doctor  might  take  it,  to  be 
asked  to  come  out  a  matter  of  five  or  six  miles,  and  on 
such  a  night.  I'd  never  had  him  in  my  house  since  my 
old  mother  died,  ten  years  before,  and  he  might  say, 
'Where  you  don't  want  me  I  don't  want  you.'  And  I  knew 
that  he  didn't  like  being  fetched  out  of  a  night  at  all,  not 
even  in  the  town,  for  he  would  sit  over  the  bottle,  with  one 
or  two  more  like  himself,  very  often,  and  then  it  was 
'home's  best,'  the  same  as  with  many  more  who  are  free  of 
his  habits.  But  come  he  should,  like  it  or  not — that  I 
made  up  my  mind  to,  as,  the  mare  and  me,  we  battled 
against  the  wind. 

"I  reached  the  town  at  last,  where  there  was  some 
shelter,  and  we  clattered  over  the  stones  between  the 
lamps  at  a  good  pace  till  we  came  to  the  doctor's  house. 
It  was  a  big,  old  house,  right  on  the  street.  I  let  the 
mare  stand,  for  she  wouldn't  budge  till  I  gave  her  the 
word,   and   rang  the  bell  pretty  loud.     I   rang  it  twice 


28  P I  r  P  I  N 

more  before  they  opened  the  door  to  me,  and  I  didn't 
leave  much  time  between  the  ringings.  But  as  I  waited  I 
saw  I  had  come  at  a  bad  time,  for  the  two  windows  of  the 
dining-room,  which  was  on  the  left  as  you  went  in,  were  all 
lighted  up,  and  by  the  noise  that  came  from  behind  them  I 
knew  that  the  doctor  was  drinking  with  some  of  his  cronies, 
and  they  had  got  very  far  into  their  cups  as  well  might 
be,  for  it  was  nigh  upon  midnight. 

"So  I  made  up  my  mind  what  to  do.  I  went  back  to 
the  cart  and  got  a  thick  sack  that  I  had  wrapped  round 
my  feet,  and  when  I  had  rung  again  and  was  let  in  I  was 
ready. 

"The  doctor's  old  servant  opened  the  door.  She  had 
her  hand  to  her  side  and  her  face  was  frightened.  She 
said  something,  though  what  it  was  I  took  no  notice  of 
at  the  time,  for  directly  the  door  was  opened  I  pushed 
past  her  into  the  hall,  and  opened  the  door  of  the  room 
where  I  knew  I  should  find  her  master. 

"As  I  got  into  the  house  the  noise  seemed  to  swell 
double,  and  the  moment  I  was  inside  the  room,  if  you'll 
believe  me,  there  was  a  crash  and  the  light  went  out. 

"I  didn't  get  more  than  a  glimpse,  but  I  saw  half  a 
do/en  men  maybe,  round  the  table,  some  of  them  standing 
up,  as  if  they  were  quarrelling.  One  had  got  a  bottle  in 
his  hand  and  was  swinging  it  over  his  head,  and  just  as  I 
came  in  he  struck  the  lamp  over  the  table,  and  out  it  went, 
as  I  said. 

"Of  course  there  was  a  flurry,  and  everybody  talking 
at  once ;  but  I  had  no  time  to  busy  myself  over  their 
drunken  quarrels.  I  had  seen  the  doctor  standing  up  by 
the  table,  and  not  so  drunk  as  he  might  have  been.  So  I 
went  up  to  him  in  the  darkness  and  caught  hold  of  his 


THE    FARMER    AND    THE    PRIEST      29 

arm  and  said,  'Come  out  of  this  at  once,  doctor,  'tis  a 
matter  of  life  and  death,  and  there's  a  cart  and  a  good 
horse  outside.' 

"He  pulled  his  arm  free,  but  I  wasn't  going  to  let  him 
go  like  that,  so  I  made  for  him  again  and  seized  hold  of 
him  more  firm — I  could  see  a  trifle  then  from  the  light 
through  the  crack  of  the  door,  which  had  pushed  to  be- 
hind me.  'Not  another  minute  will  I  stay  in  this  wicked 
house,'  he  said,  and  some  more  that  I  didn't  take  hold  of. 
'No  more  you  shall,  doctor,'  says  I,  thinking  he  was  far 
gone  in  drink  so  to  miscall  his  home.  'Come  quickly  now 
and  leave  the  rest  to  fight  it  out  between  them' ;  for  fight- 
ing there  was  in  the  dark,  and  such  a  hubbub  as  never  was 
with  it  all. 

"Well,  to  make  an  end  of  it,  as  he  didn't  seem  willing 
to  come  quietly,  I  slipped  the  sack  over  his  head,  and  tak- 
ing him  in  my  arms,  for  I  was  a  big  man  and  he  was  a  little 
one,  out  I  went  with  him  through  the  hall  and  bundled 
him  into  the  back  of  the  cart.  The  servant  had  gone  off, 
frightened  very  like,  and  left  the  street  door  open,  or  I 
shouldn't  have  got  him  out  as  easy  as  I  did,  for  he  strug- 
gled like  a  madman,  and  I  had  to  keep  his  head  jammed  up 
against  my  shoulder  to  stop  him  shouting. 

"He  didn't  let  out  more  than  one  shriek  after  I  got 
him  in  the  cart,  for  I  tied  my  neck  handkerchief  round  his 
mouth,  as  well  as  I  could  tell  where  it  was  through  the 
sack,  and  passed  a  rope  round  his  arms.  Then  I  got  up 
into  the  cart — the  old  mare  had  stood  like  a  Christian 
through  it  all,  just  looking  round  once  to  see  what  sort  of 
a  squealing  pig  I  was  loading  up  with,  as  she  thought — 
and  off  we  went  over  the  stones.  Time  enough  too,  for 
windows  were  going  up  all  around  us,  and  just  as  I  turned 


30  PIPPIN 

round  and  made  off  they  were  coming  to  the  door  of  the 
doctor's  house  and  shouting  at  me  to  stop. 

"Little  I  cared  for  it  all  with  what  I  had  in  front  of 
me,  and  with  the  wind  behind  us  we  soon  got  into  the  open 
country  and  were  travelling  at  near  double  the  rate  at 
which  we  came.  I  threw  my  own  rug  over  my  gentleman 
in  the  sack,  for  it  was  bitter  cold,  and  'You've  come  on  an 
errand  of  mercy,'  I  said  to  him,  'and  shall  be  as  snug  as 
I  can  make  you.'  He  was  still  struggling  a  bit.  'Keep 
it  up,  doctor,'  I  said.  'It  will  drive  the  drink  out  of  you, 
and  when  you  have  done  what  I've  brought  you  to  do — 
and  please  God  it  won't  be  too  late  to  do  it — you  shall 
fill  your  belly  with  what  you  please.' 

"I  was  lighter  in  my  mind  now,  and  it  seemed  no  time 
before  we  were  home  again. 

"I  left  the  mare  standing  before  the  door  and  ran  into 
the  house.  The  wise  woman  had  come  down  to  meet  me. 
Her  face  was  quite  different.  'A  stout  boy,'  she  said, 
'and  all  as  comfortable  as  can  be.' 

"  'Thank  God,'  I  said,  and  all  my  troubles  seemed  to  be 
behind  me. 

"  'Have  you  brought  the  doctor?'  she  asked.  'Little 
good  he'll  be,  but  if  he's  here  he  had  better  come  up' ;  and 
she  peered  out  of  the  door. 

"  'I've  got  him  here,'  I  said;  and  with  that  I  went  out 
and  carried  in  the  sack,  and  laid  it  tenderly  in  front  of 
the  fire. 

"'Lord  save  us!"  said  the  wise  woman,  'what's 
here?' 

"I  undid  the  rope  and  the  handkerchief  and  pulled  off 
the  sack.  The  wise  woman  shrieked  out,  and  as  for  me  I 
fell  back  in  my  chair  with  my  mouth  open,  so  I  believe, 


THE    FARMER   AND   THE   PRIEST      31 

and  no  power  to  utter  a  sound.     /  had  brought  the  wrong 


manV 


The  children  round  the  table  laughed  in  chorus  at  this 
crowning  point,  all  except  the  one  they  called  the  little 
priest,  and  he  played  with  his  spoon  and  looked  before 
him.  Pippin  laughed  with  them,  and  the  farmer  laughed 
louder  than  any. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on.  "When  I  thought  to  see  the  little 
drunken  doctor  getting  up  from  the  hearth  rug,  there  was 
a  little  priest,  as  sober  as  you  please,  and  a  man  that  I 
had  never  set  eyes  on  before,  for  we  are  not  much  in  the 
way  of  priests  here,  and  none  had  entered  the  house  before 
to  my  knowledge. 

"He  was  a  little  doubled-up  ferrety  fellow  with  red 
eyes,  and  he  stared  round  on  one  side  and  another,  blink- 
ing at  the  light,  just  like  a  ferret  coming  out  of  a  rabbit- 
hole.  He  was  near  frightened  to  death  too,  I  didn't  blame 
him  for  that,  he  not  being  a  man  of  courage  to  begin 
with,  as  I  thought,  and,  for  all  he  knew,  tied  up  in  a  sack 
and  driven  off  to  be  murdered. 

"The  wise  woman  ran  to  the  table  and  poured  out  a 
glass  of  brandy.  'Twas  the  first  thing  she  thought  of. 
I  helped  him  on  to  his  feet,  all  shaking,  and  'There's  been 
a  sad  mistake,  your  reverence,'  I  said.  'I'm  not  one  to 
throw  scorn  on  a  holy  man,  though  his  beliefs  and  mine 
are  not  the  same.' 

"He  swallowed  down  the  brandy,  and  some  of  his  wits 
came  back  to  him.  I  didn't  wait  for  him  to  speak.  'My 
wife  was  in  labour,'  I  said,  'and  it  was  going  hard  with 
her.  I  set  out  to  bring  the  doctor,  willy  nilly,  and  in  his 
state  I  judged  it  best  to  put  the  invitation  in  a  way  he 
couldn't  refuse.     'Twas  the  darkness  and  the  fighting  that 


32  PIPPIN 

misled  me,  and  you  being  in  a  house  where  such  things  were 
going  on,  I  hope  you  will  put  the  things  out  of  your  mind, 
for  which  I  heartily  beg  your  pardon.' 

"  'I  went  into  that  house,'  he  said,  'which  stands  next 
to  my  own,  to  rebuke  the  drunkenness  and  the  revelry, 
the  doctor  being  a  son  of  the  church,  though  an  erring 
one';  by  which  I  saw  that  the  priest  had  more  courage 
than  I  had  given  him  credit  for. 

"  'Quite  right,  your  reverence,'  I  said.  'And  if  you 
will  fall  to  over  the  food  and  drink  that's  on  the  table, 
late  as  it  is,  I  will  go  out  and  look  after  the  mare,  and  then 
when  I  have  just  stepped  up  to  see  how  my  good  wife  is 
going  on,  and  the  little  chap  that  has  been  sent  us,  I  will 
sit  down  and  join  you.' 

"The  wise  woman  had  gone  upstairs,  and  I  took  up 
the  sack  without  further  acho  and  went  out  to  see  to  the 
mare,  who  had  been  standing  quiet  in  the  shelter  of  the 
house  with  a  rug  over  her.  When  I  had  made  her  snug  I 
came  back,  and  there  was  the  priest  still  in  front  of  the 
fire  and  the  victuals  on  the  table  untouched. 

"  'Now  do  sit  down  and  fall  to,'  I  said  to  him.  'Punish- 
ment for  wrong  doing  I'm  not  one  to  grizzle  about,  but 
that  a  man  should  refuse  to  take  food  and  drink  in  my 
house,  as  good  as  T  can  offer  him,  that  hits  me  hard. 
There's  a  deep  bed  of  feathers  upstairs  all  ready,  and  a 
roaring  coal  fire  will  be  there  by  the  time  you  have 
warmed  yourself  with  the  good  cheer.  And  I  will  drive 
you  back  home  myself  in  the  morning,  when  you  sav  the 
word.  Forgive  me  my  rough  handling,'  I  said,  'and  let's 
be  friends.' 

"  'I  must  have  the  child,'  said  he,  peering  up  at  me  out 
of  his  little  weak  eyes,  and  taking  no  notice  of  my  words. 


THE    FARMER   AND    THE    PRIEST      33 

"I  stared  at  him,  for  I  didn't  know  what  he  would  be  at. 

"  'You  owe  me  something,'  he  said,  and  that  I  wasn't 
denying.  'You  are  a  heretic,'  he  said,  'and  I'm  not  for 
troubling  about  you,  at  present.  But  the  child  I  will 
have,  to  be  baptised  into  the  true  church,  and  that  is  how 
you  will  pay  me.' 

"Well,  I  was  taken  aback,  as  you  may  think,  but  it 
was  true  that  I  owed  him  something,  and  if  that  was  the 
way  he  chose  to  be  paid  for  what  he  had  suffered,  I  didn't 
know  but  what  he  would  have  to  have  his  way.  I  wasn't 
so  much  set  against  his  religion  as  some  that  I  know  of, 
so  I  didn't  say  no,  though  I  didn't  say  yes.  'I'll  go  up 
and  see  my  good  wife,'  I  said,  'and  afterwards  we'll  talk 
about  it  over  a  plate  and  a  glass.' 

"So  I  took  off  my  boots  and  crept  upstairs,  and  there 
was  all  as  it  should  be,  and  touches  a  man's  heart  to  see, 
the  mother  weak  and  worn  with  striving,  but  smiling  and 
happy,  and  close  to  her  the  little  tiny  creature  that  knows 
nothing  about  it  all  yet,  though  the  love  that  brought  it 
into  the  world  is  wrapping  it  round.  Ah,  it  gives  the  man 
something  to  think  about,  the  birth  of  his  child,  and  so 
you  will  know,  young  sir,  when  you  grow  older  and  beget 
children  of  your  own. 

"I  didn't  stay  long,  but  kissed  my  wife  and  touched  the 
little  chap's  cheek,  and  came  down  again  to  look  after  the 
priest,  first  seeing  that  all  was  right  in  the  room  where  I 
hoped  he  would  sleep  sound  after  all  he  had  put  up  with. 

"Well,  over  our  supper — and  a  hearty  meal  we  both 
made  of  it — we  struck  the  bargain,  the  priest  and  I.  'It 
is  true  I  owe  you  something,'  said  I,  'for  the  way  I  have 
handled  you,  and  you  shall  baptise  the  child  into  your 
church  in  due  time,  for  one  church  is  as  good  as  another.' 


34  r  i  r  r  i  n 

"  'It  is  not,'  he  said.  'There  is  only  one  church,  and 
I  will  baptise  the  child  into  that.  But  he  must  be  brought 
up  to  know  where  lie  stands.  I  will  see  to  that ;  for  to 
this  godless  place  I  have  just  been  sent,  and  here  I  will 
stay  till  I  bring  the  truth  to  many  homes.' 

"  'That's  as  you  please,'  I  said.  'The  rest  of  us  will 
stay  where  we  are,  parents  and  children,  but  this  child  you 
shall  have  the  training  of,  for  a  bargain's  a  bargain,  and 
I'm  not  the  man  to  go  back  from  mine.' 

"So  we  settled  it,  and  the  priest  supped  well  and  slept 
warm,  and  I  drove  him  back  to  his  house  the  next  day 
with  the  sack  round  his  legs  instead  of  over  his  head,  and 
every  now  and  again  I  laughed  out  loud  at  what  was  in  my 
mind.  And  the  priest  said,  'Ay,  you  may  laugh  as  you 
will.  Your  laughter  pays  for  a  soul  saved  from  everlast- 
ing sorrow.'      However,  that's  as  may  be. 

"When  the  time  came  the  baby  was  christened  in  the 
priest's  church.  A  rare  to-do  it  was  too,  and  the  good 
wife  as  pleased  as  she  could  be  over  it,  though  she  never 
said  as  much." 

The  farmer's  wife  shook  her  head,  but  the  smile  on  her 
face  belied  her  action.  She  had  her  own  sphere  in  life, 
and  outside  it  whatever  her  husband  did  was  right. 

"There's  no  one  more  welcome  in  this  house  now,"  said 
the  farmer,  "than  that  brave  little  ferrety  priest.  All 
has  turned  out  well,  and  our  little  priest  here,  so  we  call 
him,  to  keep  in  mind  the  merry  tale,  why  he's  as  good  as 
gold,  and  his  reverence  thinks  so  much  of  him  that  there's 
no  telling  what  he  won't  make  of  him  by  and  by.  But  to 
think  it  all  came  about  from  that — me  catching  hold  of 
him  and  throwing  a  sack  over  his  head  and  tying  him  up 


THE    FARMER    AND    THE    PRIEST      35 

and  driving  him  home  here,  as  innocent  as  a  baby  of  what 
I  was  doing — why — I" 

He  ended  in  a  burst  of  laughter,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  and  throwing  his  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling.  The  rest 
all  laughed  in  chorus,  except  the  child  over  whom  the  bar- 
gain had  been  struck.  He  sat  solemn,  and  his  wide  eyes 
gazed  in  front  of  him,  like  the  eyes  of  one  who  has  been 
initiated  into  some  mystery,  so  that  much  of  the  laughter 
of  the  world  goes  by  him  as  a  thing  of  no  account. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PIPPIN   FALLS   IN    WITH    THE   GENTLEMAN    TRAMP 

"Well,  I  must  be  getting  back  to  the  sheep,"  said  the 
farmer,  when  breakfast  was  over,  and  Pippin  said,  "And  I 
must  get  on  to  the  road  again." 

The  farmer  had  been  so  busy  talking  ever  since  they 
had  met  that  he  had  asked  Fippin  nothing  about  himself, 
except  whence  lie  came.  Now  he  looked  at  him  with  a 
trace  of  curiosity  and  asked  where  he  was  bound  for. 

"I  am  going  to  the  big  town,"  said  Pippin,  with  a  youth- 
ful blush ;  but  the  farmer  spared  him  further  questions,  be- 
ing more  interested  in  himself  and  his  own  than  in  others. 

"That  is  a  place  I  was  never  in,"  he  said.  "In  this 
house  I  was  born  and  here  I  have  lived  all  my  life.  Here, 
too,  I  expect  to  die  when  the  time  comes.  Stick  to  your 
hearth,  say  I,  if  you  have  one  to  stick  to.  But  some  are 
not  so  fortunate." 

Pippin  thought  over  this  as  he  took  the  road  again, 
having  bidden  good-bye  to  his  kindly  host,  who  put  him  on 
the  way,  talking  all  the  time  of  his  own  affairs,  and  to  the 
good  wife,  who  stood  at  the  door  to  see  him  go,  her  rosy 
children  gathered  about,  her  skirts. 

"It  is  elderly  men,"  he  said,  "that  make  so  much  of  the 

home  at   their  backs.      For  them,  and   for   children  who 

need  protection,  and  for  women,  it  is  the  best  place,  as  I 

can  see.      But  for  my  part  I  was  very  tired  of  it,  and  now, 

hurrah  for  the  road  again !" 

Pippin  now  left  the  high  down  lands  and  dropped  into  a 

36 


THE    GENTLEMAN    TRAMP  37 

well-wooded  valley.  The  noble  forest  towards  which  his 
steps  were  tending,  and  through  which  he  would  have  to 
journey  on  his  way  to  the  town,  was  still  many  miles  dis- 
tant; but  in  bygone  years  the  whole  of  this  country  had 
been  forest,  and  the  trees  and  the  fern  and  the  woodland 
glades  had  stretched  to  the  very  escarpments  of  the  chalk 
hills  over  which  he  had  just  come. 

There  were  still  left  islands  of  uncleared  land  in  the 
midst  of  all  that  had  been  tamed  to  support  mankind. 
Pippin  crossed  a  brown  heath,  dipping  and  rising,  and 
more  than  once  walked  between  ranks  of  great  trees,  and 
peered  on  either  side  into  the  recess  of  a  deep  wood. 

But  mostly  the  land  was  cultivated.  Broad  fields  of 
ploughed  earth  were  covered  with  a  wash  of  green,  where 
the  seeds  were  sprouting,  there  were  pastures  in  which  fat 
kine  were  grazing,  and  untenanted  hayfields.  Farmsteads 
were  frequent  and  the  cottages  of  day-labourers,  tiled  or 
thatched,  with  low  casement  windows,  each  in  its  little  plot 
of  garden  ground.  And  sometimes  these  cottages  would 
gather  together,  and,  huddling  close,  one  to  the  other, 
would  make  a  little  village,  in  which  there  were  shops  and 
an  inn,  and,  a  little  apart,  an  old  church,  with  its  schools 
and  its  parsonage.  Pleasant  villages  they  were,  and 
warmed  the  traveller  who  passed  through  them  with 
thoughts  of  home  and  a  life  of  content  and  tranquillity. 

Pippin,  marching  along  the  broad  high  road,  sang  aloud 
for  joy.  The  sun  was  now  high  in  the  heavens,  the  black- 
birds piped  in  the  budding  woods,  the  larks  carolled  above 
the  meadows,  and  the  strong  clean  April  wind  pushed  the 
cloud  argosies  across  the  blue  spaces  of  the  sky.  He  had 
come  to  a  country  that  was  new  to  him,  and  he  tasted  the 
joy  of  his  adventure.     He  was  in  the  full  tide  of  his  youth- 


38  p  i  r  r  i  n 

ful  vigour.  His  blood,  stung  by  the  spring,  raced  merrily 
through  his  veins,  his  bones  were  hard,  his  muscles  like 
fine  tempered  steel.  He  felt  as  if  he  could  walk  for  ever 
through  the  beautiful  morning  world.  Anything  might 
happen  to  him,  and  he  was  ready  for  anything  that  might 
happen.  He  could  go  where  lie  would  and  do  what  he 
would,  and  there  were  none  to  say  him  nay.  And,  however 
much  he  might  linger  by  the  way,  he  had  a  purpose  in 
front  of  him:  to  come  at  last  to  the  great  town,  and  see 
what  manner  of  life  was  lived  by  those  at  the  heart  of  the 
world. 

At  noon  he  stopped  at  a  wayside  inn  to  refresh  himself 
and  rest  his  limbs,  for  he  had  now  been  walking  many 
hours,  and,  although  his  spirit  was  still  strong  within  him 
and  his  mind  set  on  motion,  his  body  cried  halt  for  the  time 
and  he  was  glad  enough  to  obey  it.  These  halts  by  the 
way  are  not  the  least  pleasant  part  of  such  an  excursion 
as  his.  Rest  and  refreshment  for  the  body  when  it  has 
willingly  done  its  work  are  very  sweet.  But  in  idleness 
they  lose  their  savour. 

The  inn  stood  by  the  roadside,  away  from  other  houses. 
A  swinging  sign,  of  the  head  of  some  great  man  or  other, 
hung  where  its  invitation  could  be  plainly  seen,  and  above 
the  door  was  an  inscription  which  showed  that  the  land- 
lord committed  no  illegal  act  in  serving  wayfarers  with 
any  kind  of  liquor  they  might  want.  A  big  trough  under- 
neath the  sign  held  water  for  the  horses,  whose  choice  was 
limited  and  easily  satisfied.  Under  the  fall  of  the  low 
eaves  was  a  wooden  bench  and  a  rough  table,  upon  which, 
when  the  weather  was  agreeable,  men  might  sit  with  their 
glasses  at  hand  and  be  entertained  by  talk  and  the  pag- 
eant of  the  road. 


THE    GENTLEMAN    TRAMP  39 

The  sun  shone  warm,  and  the  wind  which  had  blown  so 
freshly  across  the  downs  was  here  felt  only  as  a  light 
breeze.  Pippin  went  under  the  low  door  of  the  inn  and 
ordered  what  he  wanted,  and  presently  the  landlord 
brought  it  out  to  him — the  half  of  a  crusty  loaf,  cheese 
and  butter,  and  clear  ale  in  a  tankard.  He  was  a  tun- 
bellied  man,  with  a  cheerful  face,  as  a  good  landlord  ought 
to  be,  who  himself  thrives  on  the  food  and  drink  he 
provides  for  others. 

He  asked  Pippin  where  he  had  come  from,  and,  when 
he  was  told,  laughed  and  said  that  it  was  many  years  since 
he  had  walked  so  far  in  a  day,  although  in  his  youth  there 
were  none  to  beat  him. 

"You  wouldn't  think,  to  look  at  me,  that  when  I  was 
your  age  I  was  as  thin  as  a  hop-pole,  would  you?"  he  said, 
and  Pippin  replied  that  he  should  not  have  suspected  it. 

"With  some,"  said  the  landlord,  "flesh  comes  year  by 
year  whether  they  eat  and  drink  or  whether  they  stint 
themselves.  With  others  it  don't  come  at  all.  That 
being  so,  eat  and  drink  your  fill,  say  I,  and  make  the  best 
of  what's  sent  you."  This  dictum,  suitable  for  a  man  of 
his  calling,  the  landlord  repeated  twice,  and  then  went 
indoors  to  look  after  his  business.  Pippin  was  left  to  his 
meal,  which  he  enjoyed  hugely. 

By  and  by  he  saw  coming  along  the  road  a  curious 
figure  of  a  man.  He  was  dressed  in  a  black  coat  that  had 
still  the  remains  of  respectability,  a  very  shabby  pair  of 
trousers,  and  a  pair  of  boots  so  old  that  his  toes  peeped 
through  them.  He  wore  a  straw  hat  that  had  once  been 
white,  and  when  he  came  closer  Pippin  saw  that  his  shirt 
was  clean  and  new,  although  no  collar  had  been  added  to 
it. 


40  r  I P  P I N 

Any  tramp  of  the  road  might  have  been  dressed  thus, 
in  the  cast  off  clothes  of  more  fortunate  people;  and  the 
shirt  he  might  have  stolen.  But  this  man,  in  spite  of  his 
attire,  did  not  look  like  a  tram]).  He  had  a  pointed  white 
beard,  beautifully  trimmed,  and  his  hands  were  slender, 
and  quite  clean.  He  was  like  a  man  of  birth,  masquerad- 
ing as  a  vagabond,  and  he  walked  with  the  step  of  a  gentle- 
man of  consequence,  or  as  much  so  as  his  battered  boots 
would  allow. 

"Now  who  and  what  is  this?'*  said  Pippin  to  himself 
as  the  man  approached,  and  he  shifted  a  little  in  his  seat 
and  made  a  motion  with  his  plate,  so  as  to  shew  that  if  he 
chose  to  take  a  seat  by  his  side  he  would  not  be  unwelcome. 

The  man  seized  upon  the  slight  courtesy  instantly,  and 
magnified  it  into  an  invitation.  He  took  off  his  scare- 
crow's hat  with  a  flourish  and  said  in  a  rather  mincing 
voice:  "I  thank  you  most  sincerely,  young  gentleman.  I 
had  intended  to  go  on  to  the  next  village  before  I  dined. 
But  since  you  are  so  generous  as  to  offer  me  your  hospital- 
ity I  will  not  refuse  you."  He  looked  at  what  was  set  be- 
fore Pippin.  "Bread  and  butter  and  cheese,  a  tankard 
of  ale,  and  all  of  the  best,"  he  said.  "It  is  a  feast  fit  for 
a  king,  and  I  will  willingly  join  you.  Shall  I  call  the 
landlord,  or  will  you?" 

"Well,  I  think  you  had  better,"  replied  Pippin,  "if 
you  want  anything  of  him.  I  gave  no  invitation,  and 
meant  none,  except  that  I  was  ready  for  your  company  if 
you  chose  to  give  it  me."     And  he  went  on  eating. 

The  man  sat  himself  down  on  the  seat  beside  him  with- 
out a  word.  He  looked  straight  in  front  of  him,  his  thin 
hands  resting  on  the  crown  of  the  stick  between  his  kDees. 

When   Pippin   had   eaten    a   few    more   mouthfuls    and 


THE    GENTLEMAN    TRAMP  41 

drunk  a  big  draught  from  his  tankard  he  began  to  feel  a 
trifle  uneasy ;  but  he  saw  that  his  companion  was  acting 
in  this  way  for  some  purpose  of  his  own,  and  determined 
that  he  would  not  be  the  first  to  speak.  He  stole  a  glance 
at  the  man's  face,  and  could  make  very  little  of  it.  It  was 
thin,  but  not,  he  thought,  with  the  thinness  of  hunger. 
The  well-kept  beard,  and  the  well-kept  hands,  seemed  to 
show  that  he  was  not  what  his  clothes  betokened  him  to 
be;  but  of  any  sign  of  what  he  really  was  his  face  was 
empty.     And  at  the  moment  it  was  quite  expressionless. 

Twice  or  thrice  more  Pippin  stole  a  glance  at  him,  and 
at  last  he  intercepted  a  side-long  look  at  his  fast-empty- 
ing plate.  It  was  withdrawn  instantly,  and  had  evidently 
been  taken  as  it  were  against  the  will.  But  its  meaning 
was  unmistakeable.     The  man  was  hungry. 

"Oh,  come  now,"  said  young  Pippin,  good  naturedly. 
"If  you  want  a  meal  and  can't  pay  for  it,  say  so,  and  eat 
and  drink  at  my  expense.  But  I'm  not  to  be  caught  with 
the  sort  of  chaff  you  tried  just  now." 

The  man's  attitude  changed  like  magic.  "My  dear 
sir,"  he  said,  volubly,  "I  accept  with  the  very  greatest 
pleasure  in  the  world,  although  I  assure  you  that  nothing 
was  farther  from  my  thoughts  than  to  ask  for  your  hos- 
pitality." 

"There  are  more  ways  of  asking  than  with  the  tongue," 
said  Pippin,  and  he  called  the  landlord. 

"Hullo!"  said  mine  host  in  the  doorway.  "Here's  the 
Gentleman  Tramp  again!  Why  it  must  be  a  year  or 
more  since  you  were  last  on  this  beat."  He  grinned  all 
over  his  broad  face  as  he  spoke,  and  Pippin  understood 
that  the  gentility  of  his  companion  was  not  of  the  kind 
that  claims  respect. 


42  PIPPIN 

"If  you  will  kindly  take  the  orders  of  my  young  friend 
here,  and  keep  your  clownish  greetings  for  your  own 
cronies,  rustic  George,"  said  the  traveller  with  unmoved 
assurance,  "you  shall  have  our  further  custom.  If  not 
you  may  go  and  drown  yourself  in  a  barrel  of  your  own 
watery  beer,  and  we  will  go  where  we  can  get  better." 

"Hark  at  him  now!"  said  the  landlord,  greatly  de- 
lighted. "It's  his  impudence  that  feeds  him  from  one  end 
of  the  land  to  the  other.  No  more  a  gentleman  than  I  am, 
and  never  did  a  hand's  turn  in  his  life!  Well,  he's  got 
hold  of  you,  young  sir.     What  is  it  to  be?" 

Pippin  gave  his  order,  and  the  landlord,  his  fat  sides 
shaking,  went  indoors  to  cany  it  out. 

"These  rustic  boors,"  said  the  Gentleman  Tramp,  when 
they  were  left  to  themselves,  "want  keeping  in  their  place. 
Because  I  choose  the  life  of  the  road,  which  is  the  best 
life  in  the  world,  instead  of  growing  old  before  my  time 
between  four  walls,  and  because  I  choose  to  wear  old  and 
easy  clothes,  which  are  the  best  to  travel  in,  every  clown 
of  them  all  thinks  he  may  sharpen  his  clumsy  wit  on  me. 
If  this  fellow  provokes  me  any  more,  you  shall  hear  me  set 
him  down." 

He  spoke  with  an  air  of  great  dignity,  and  Pippin  eyed 
him  askance,  not  knowing  what  to  think.  But,  remember- 
ing the  impudence  of  his  greeting,  and  his  side  look  at  the 
food,  he  held  his  tongue  and  waited  for  what  should  follow. 

The  landlord  came  out  with  the  fellow  to  Pippin's  re- 
past. He  was  still  grinning.  "Don't  begin  till  you  have 
put  that  inside  you,"  he  said.  "You'll  do  it  better.  If 
you  could  manage  to  wait  till  the  afternoon  I  would  make 
it  worth  your  while  up  to  a  pint  or  two.  My  old  woman 
has  gone  to  market,  and  it's  a  shame  she  should  miss  it." 


THE    GENTLEMAN    TRAMP  43 

"When  your  company  is  wanted,  landlord,  it  will  be 
asked  for,"  said  the  Gentleman  Tramp,  applying  himself 
with  ill-disguised  eagerness  to  his  food.  "I  don't  know 
what  the  world  is  coming  to.  Before  I  left  my  home  to 
walk  about  the  country,  a  man  of  your  quality  would  have 
thought  himself  honoured  to  sit  down  with  my  servants. 
And  if  he  had  behaved  himself  as  you  do  the  meanest 
scullion  of  them  all  would  have  refused  to  eat  with  him. 
Go  back  to  your  pots  and  barrels,  you  toping  pot-bellied 
oaf.  You  make  the  sweet  air  rank  with  your  greasy  pres- 
ence." 

This  invective  was  uttered  fluently  but  not  with  any 
passion,  and  its  effect  was  somewhat  marred  by  the  move- 
ment of  the  speaker's  jaws.  The  landlord  maintained  his 
expectant  grin,  but  it  was  plain  that  he  was  not  quite 
satisfied.  "The  invention's  there,"  he  said,  "but  it  don't 
come  right  somehow.  You  eat  and  drink  your  fill,  my 
man,  and  what  the  gentleman  doesn't  pay  for  I  will. 
You'll  do  better  after  you've  got  through  with  your 
victuals." 

"Before  you  relieve  us  of  your  presence,  which  we 
haven't  asked  for  and  don't  want,"  said  the  Gentleman 
Tramp,  "I  should  like  to  know  what  has  become  of  that 
pair  of  boots  I  left  with  you  the  last  time  I  passed  this 
way.  Presently  you  can  bring  them  out  and  I  will  change 
these  for  them." 

"Pair  of  boots  I"  echoed  the  landlord,  looking  down 
at  the  Gentleman  Tramp's  dusty  disreputable  feet. 
"You've  made  a  mistake.  Are  you  sure  it  wasn't  a  hat, 
now?  I've  got  a  pretty  fair  hat  put  by  somewhere.  I 
thought  it  was  an  old  one  of  my  own,  but  I  may  have  been 
mistaken." 


44.  PIPPIN 

'"Well,  perhaps  it  was  a  hat.  It  was  one  or  the  other. 
Go  and  fetch  out  the  hat,  and  I  will  see.  The  season  is 
not  quite  ripe  for  the  one  I  have  on." 

The  landlord  went  inside  with  a  wink  at  Pippin  and 
returned  with  a  hard  felt  hat,  square  in  the  crown,  which 
the  tramp  took  and  looked  at  critically.  It  was  old  and 
well-worn,  but  it  was  a  king  of  hats  beside  the  one  he  had 
on. 

'•You  have  been  wearing  it  yourself  as  I  might  have 
expected,"  he  said  as  he  tried  it  on.  "Men  of  your  class 
have  no  more  conscience  or  honesty  than  a  magpie.  You 
would  steal  the  plate  off  your  grandfather's  coffin  when 
you  opened  his  grave  to  bury  your  father.  But  I  will 
take  it,  and  you  can  have  this  one  instead,  which  you  can 
either  wear  to  church  on  Sundays  or  hang  up  in  your 
parlour  and  boast  that  it  was  given  to  you  by  a  scholar 
and  a  gentleman."  He  handed  his  filthy  straw  to  the 
landlord,  who  took  it  with  a  bow.  "It  has  tiled  in  a  deal 
of  knavery,"  he  said.  "  'Twill  serve  for  a  boggart,  and 
frighten  off  the  crows  better  than  most." 

The  encounter  ended  with  some  disappointment  to  Pip- 
pin and  a  good  deal  to  the  innkeeper,  for  the  Gentleman 
Tramp  now  rose  from  his  seat,  saying  to  Pippin,  "Follow 
me  when  you  have  settled  with  this  low  fellow,"  and  went 
off  down  the  road  with  his  walk  of  a  man  of  consequence. 

"A  rare  rogue,"  said  the  landlord,  looking  after  him. 
"But  he  gets  older,  and  I  doubt  that  he  is  losing  some  of 
his  powers.  When  he  can  no  more  cozen  honest  men  he 
will  die  in  a  ditch.  The  life  of  the  road  is  a  hard  life,  al- 
though those  who  live  it  scoff  at  those  who  work.  You  are 
travelling  for  pleasure,  I  take  it,  and  could  ride  if  you 
wished  to."      He  cast  a  shrewd  eye  upon  his  guest. 


THE    GENTLEMAN    TRAMP  45 

"I  like  to  go  upon  my  own  feet,"  said  Pippin.  "You 
see  more,  and  I  want  to  see  all  I  can.  I  think  the  life  of 
the  road  is  a  very  good  life." 

"It  is  a  very  good  life  for  a  time  if  you  have  money,  or 
a  home  to  return  to,"  said  the  landlord.  "Well,  you  will 
get  plenty  of  entertainment  from  my  fine  gentleman  there. 
But  be  wary.     He  is  a  most  amazing  rascal." 

Pippin  thought  that  this  was  very  likely  the  case,  as 
he  walked  off  down  the  road,  some  distance  behind  his 
late  companion,  who  marched  straight  ahead  without 
looking  back ;  and  he  was  in  two  minds  as  to  whether  he 
should  not  take  a  field  path  he  saw  just  ahead  of  him  and 
shake  off  the  tramp  altogether. 

"I  don't  know  whether  he  thinks  I  am  going  to  run 
after  him  and  catch  him  up  for  the  pleasure  of  his  com- 
pany," he  said  to  himself.  "It  would  be  like  his  impu- 
dence. Now,  if  he  turns  and  waits  for  me  before  I  get  to 
that  stile,  I  will  perhaps  go  with  him,  for  I  shall  get  some 
fun  out  of  him ;  and  as  for  his  rascality,  I  am  old  enough 
and  strong  enough  to  look  after  myself." 

He  came  to  the  stile,  and  the  tramp  still  marched  on; 
but  just  as  Pippin  had  his  leg  over  the  rail  he  looked 
round,  and  shouted  at  him.  Pippin  took  no  notice.  "If 
he  wants  my  company  he  can  run  for  it  now,"  he  said. 

Then  Gentleman  Tramp,  after  shouting  a  little  longer 
with  no  effect,  broke  through  the  hedge  and  came  across 
the  grass  to  intercept  him.  "What  do  you  want  to  take 
this  way  for?"  he  asked  angrily  as  he  came  up. 

"Partly  because  I  like  a  field  path,  and  partly  to  rid 
myself  of  your  company,"  replied  Pippin. 

The  tramp  eyed  him  askance.  "The  latter  is  very 
easily  done,"  he  said  haughtily.      "Why  I,  a  man  of  birth 


46  PIPPIN 

and  breeding,  am  willing  to  burden  mysulf  with  the  society 
of  a  clodhopper  like  yourself  is  explained  by  the  fact  that 
it  is  my  pleasure  to  welcome  all  sorts  of  company  in  the 
life  I  have  chosen.  But  if  you  are  not  alive  to  the  honour 
that  is  being  done  you  you  have  only  to  say  so,  and  you 
may  go  your  own  stupid  way  by  yourself." 

Pippin's  temper  had  been  rising  during  this  speech. 
He  turned  round  in  the  path.  "I  have  said  that  I  don't 
want  your  company  as  plainly  as  I  can  speak,"  he  said. 
"Be  off  on  your  road,  and  I  will  keep  to  mine." 

He  turned  and  walked  on;  and  the  Gentleman  Tramp 
followed  in  his  footsteps. 

So  they  went  one  behind  the  other,  across  a  wide 
pasture,  through  a  little  wood,  and  into  a  narrow  lane, 
and  neither  of  them  spoke  till  they  had  covered  a  mile. 
Then  the  Gentleman  Tramp  said  in  his  high-pitched,  minc- 
ing voice: 

"When  you  said  just  now  that  you  liked  a  by  path  for 
its  own  sake,  you  showed  plainly  that  you  were  new  to  the 
road.  You  will  never  find  those  who  know  the  life  choos- 
ing any  but  the  broad  thoroughfares.  Half  the  pleasure 
of  tramping  lies  in  what  you  see  of  men.  You  constantly 
fall  in  with  new  companions, — some  good,  some  bad,  but 
all  of  them  interesting.  If  you  slink  along  through  fields 
and  spinneys  you  meet  nobody." 

"Is  that  the  reason  why  you  were  willing  to  burden 
yourself  with  the  society  of  a  clodhopper?"  asked  Pippin. 
He  had  recovered  most  of  his  good  humour.  His  con- 
tempt for  the  man  behind  him  and  his  absurd  pretences 
was  mixed  with  some  pity.  It  troubled  him  to  see  a  man 
of  years  dependent  on  a  folly,  and  so  ready  to  swallow 
a  rebuff. 


THE    GENTLEMAN    TRAMP  47 

But  it  was  not  safe  to  grant  an  inch  to  the  Gentleman 
Tramp,  who  now  immediately  stretched  this  one  to  an  ell. 

"That  was  the  reason,"  he  said  calmly.  "Your  face 
is  a  fatuous  one,  and  evidently  conceals  behind  it  the  least 
possible  allowance  of  brain.  Also,  you  are  so  young  and 
green  that  you  cannot  yet  possess  any  of  that  shrewd 
philosophy  which  ignorant  people  sometimes  gain  who 
know  the  world.     But — " 

"But  3Tou  have  already  got  one  meal  out  of  me,"  Pippin 
broke  in.  "And  }tou  think  that  if  you  stick  close  to  my 
heels  and  put  up  with  rebuffs  which  no  man  of  indepen- 
dence would  take  you  may  get  more.  To  save  disappoint- 
ment I  will  tell  you  now  that  I  do  not  like  your  ways,  and 
shall  be  of  no  further  service  to  you." 

The  Gentleman  Tramp  considered  this.  "My  ways  are 
those  of  a  well-born  gentleman,"  he  said.  "It  is  not  to  be 
supposed  that  you  are  familiar  with  them." 

"Since  they  consist  in  sitting  down  to  a  meal  as  a  man's 
guest  and  then  vilifying  him,"  returned  Pippin,  "I  have 
no  wish  to  be.  Now  let  us  understand  each  other."  He 
turned  round  again — they  were  crossing  a  corn-field — 
and  faced  his  follower.  "You  are  perhaps  a  man  of  some 
gifts,  but  you  put  them  to  very  bad  use.  I  am  willing 
to  go  with  you  as  far  as  our  roads  lie  together,  but  we  will 
drop  this  impudent  pretence  of  gentility.  You  ape  the 
gentleman  because  you  earn  your  bread  by  your  merry- 
andrew  tricks.  But  it  is  quite  plain  to  me  that  you  never 
were  one,  and  I  am  tired  of  your  folly." 

The  Gentleman  Tramp  laughed  at  him.  "Lead  on,  fire- 
eater,"  he  said.  "You  are  a  youth  of  some  sense,  after 
all.  I  think  perhaps  we  may  amuse  one  another  for  a 
time." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  GENTLEMAN  TRAMP 

The  two  now  came  out  on  to  the  high-road  again,  and 
walked  side  by  side. 

"I  know  what  you  are  thinking,"  said  the  Gentleman 
Tramp  presently.  "You  are  wondering  whether,  after 
all,  it  is  true  that  I  have  no  pretensions  to  gentle  birth." 

"There  is  not  much  doubt  about  your  pretensions," 
replied  Pippin,  with  a  smile.  "They  are  loud  enough  to 
deafen  one's  ears." 

"They  have  to  be,"  said  the  other  calmly.  "I  earn 
what  little  keeps  me  alive  by  pushing  them.  Do  you 
think,  if  I  really  behaved  like  a  gentleman,  I  should  have 
got  this  hat,  for  instance,  out  of  our  friend  the  landlord? 
A  very  good  hat  it  is  too,  for  a  man  of  my  present  station 
in  life."  He  took  it  off  and  looked  at  it  inside  and  out. 
"Though  I  wish  it  had  been  a  pair  of  boots,"  he  added. 
"These  are  very  far  gone,  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  the 
pace  you  are  setting  tries  them  almost  beyond  their  legiti- 
mate powers." 

Pippin  immediately  slackened  his  swinging  stride.      "If 

you  are  very  much  in  need  of  a  pair  of  boots,"  he  blurted 

out,  with  the  shame  of  youth  in  doing  a  generous  action, 

"and  you  certainly  seem  to  be — I  hope  you  will  let  me  make 

you  a  present  of  some  when  we  get  to  the  next  town."     He 

was   half   sorry   when  he  had    said   it,   for   the  man  had 

bounced  him  out  of  a  meal  already,  and  had  insulted  him 

afterwards ;   and   who  was  to  say  that  this  new  quieter 

48 


THE    STORY    OF    THE    TRAMP         49 

manner  was  not  simply  another  of  his  unscrupulous  tricks? 

The  Gentleman  Tramp  may  have  suspected  what  was 
passing  through  his  mind.  At  any  rate  he  did  not  in- 
stantly pounce  upon  his  offer,  as  he  had  done  before. 
"For  the  first  time  for  some  years,"  he  said,  "I  will  give 
myself  the  pleasure  of  refusing  a  gift.  With  the  ignorant 
clowns  who  pay  me  for  entertaining  them  it  suits  me  best 
to  appear  an  impudent  impostor.  With  you,  to  whose 
young  and  honest  face  I  have  taken  a  liking,  I  would 
rather  have  the  credit  of  being  what  I  really  am  in  spite 
of  all  my  follies.  I  will  tell  you  my  story  if  you  would 
care  to  hear  it." 

"I  should  like  nothing  better,"  replied  Pippin.  "It 
will  be  the  second  story  I  have  been  told  to-day;  but  to 
hear  about  the  lives  that  men  lead,  and  to  see  them  for 
myself,  is  what  I  have  come  out  into  the  world  for.  And 
your  story  should  be  something  out  of  the  common." 

"It  is  a  story  of  good  opportunities  wasted  by  folly," 
said  the  Gentleman  Tramp,  rather  sadly.  "That  is  not 
very  uncommon,  perhaps.  But  you  shall  hear  it  and  see." 
He  then  embarked  without  further  preface  on 

The  Story  of  the  Gentleman  Tramp 

I  was  born  the  elder  son  of  a  country  gentleman  of 
good  lineage  and  fair  estate.  The  house  in  which  I  was 
brought  up,  and  which  should  now  belong  to  me,  was  built 
by  my  grandfather's  grandfather,  who  had  made  money  in 
honest  trade.  That  is  good  lineage  as  things  go  now- 
days,  and  I  assure  you  that  for  four  generations  none  of 
my  family  had  soiled  his  hands  with  trade,  honest  or 
otherwise.     We    had    lived    handsomely    upon    what    the 


so  pirriN 

founder  of  our  house — I  believe  he  tanned  leather — had 
left  behind  him,  taking  money  out  of  the  land  as  befits 
a  gentleman,  but  also  putting  in  what  was  necessary  to 
make  it  productive;  and  none  were  the  worse  for  our  good 
living  through  near  two  hundred  years,  but  many,  who 
worked  for  us,  much  the  better. 

The  house  stood  in  a  park  of  fine  trees.  Whenever  I 
think  of  it,  which  you  may  believe  is  not  very  often  now,  I 
think  of  the  room  in  which  I  slept  as  a  boy — a  large, 
square  room  facing  west.  If  I  could  sleep  in  that  room 
once  more  before  I  die,  I  would — well,  I  think  I  would  even 
undertake  to  drop  my  vagabond  habits.  I  should  like  to 
see  again  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  draw  along  the  thick 
grass  at  sunset,  and  the  rooks  follow  one  another  across 
the  evening  sky. 

There  was  a  big  window,  from  which  a  great  deal  could 
be  seen.  I  slept  with  it  wide  open,  so  as  not  to  lose  a 
moment  of  each  new  day,  in  which  there  was  so  much  to 
do  and  to  see.  Even  now,  when  there  is  not  quite  so  much, 
I  would  rather  sleep  where  the  sun  will  call  me  than  under 
a  roof.  In  my  childhood,  so  many  years  ago,  it  was  al- 
ways my  ambition  to  lie  under  the  stars,  and  I  remember 
the  first  time  that  I  did  so,  in  the  boughs  of  a  tree  in  my 
father's  park  where  I  had  swung  a  hammock,  and  the 
trouble  there  was  about  it  when  I  was  missed  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

I  also  remember  vividly  a  room  built  on  the  wall  at 
one  of  the  gates.  It  was  built  after  the  French  style  and 
looked  on  to  the  road.  There  was  a  great  plane-tree  over- 
shadowing it,  standing  on  a  patch  of  grass  by  the  road- 
side. The  lodge  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  gate.  I  was 
allowed  to  use  this  room  to  play  in,  and  I  sometimes  stood 


THE    STORY   OF    THE    TRAMP         51 

for  hours  at  the  window  gazing  out  on  to  the  road  and 
the  people  who  passed.  I  would  have  given  a  great  deal 
to  join  them.  My  roving  tendency  was  alive  even  in  those 
early  days.  But  the  gate  was  kept  locked,  and  I  was  not 
allowed  to  go  through  it. 

Another  memory  that  comes  to  me — but  I  try  to  keep  it 
off — is  the  little  old  church  in  the  park,  where  we  all  used 
to  sit  in  a  great  square  pew,  my  father,  big,  and,  I  must 
say,  now  that  I  know  more  of  the  world,  rather  pompous, 
and  looking  as  if  he  thought  that  a  good  deal  of  what 
we  went  to  church  to  do  was  in  his  own  honour,  as  per- 
haps some  of  it  was,  for  he  was  the  most  important  man 
in  the  place  by  far,  and  most  of  those  who  stood  and  knelt 
there  with  us  were  dependent  upon  him ;  my  mother  very 
gentle  and  collected ;  and  my  little  brother  and  I  on  either 
side  of  her;  while  the  old  man  in  the  reading  desk  or  the 
pulpit  droned  his  way  through  the  service,  and  we  could 
see  the  birds  flying  to  and  fro  through  the  clear  glass  of 
the  east  window. 

I  envied  the  birds  their  freedom  during  those  hours  of 
confinement,  which  were  very  irksome  to  me  then.  My 
head  was  full  of  plans  for  the  open  air,  and  that  is  per- 
haps why  they  come  back  to  me,  for  it  is  thought  and 
not  action  that  stamps  the  memory,  and  a  child  seldom 
thinks  when  he  can  be  doing.  And  there  was  the  atmos- 
phere of  peace  and  protection,  which  strikes  me  now 
that  I  am  getting  older  as  a  very  delightful  thing.  With 
all  its  attractive  qualities,  the  roving  life  is  somewhat 
lacking  in  that  atmosphere. 

Well,  childhood  is  soon  over,  and  I  will  weary  you  with 
no  further  details  about  mine,  which  was  a  happy  one, 
as  I  see  now  looking  back  upon  it,  although  in  those  days, 


52  nrriN 

like  most  children,  I  was  anxious  to  be  grown  up,  and 
my  own  master. 

I  was  wild  and  troublesome  from  the  first.  A  character 
such  as  mine  is  given  to  a  man  before  lie  is  born,  most 
unfairly  as  I  think,  for  it  will  plague  him  all  his  life, 
and,  unless  circumstances  are  very  much  in  his  favour, 
bring  him  very  quickly  to  ruin.  Nobody  could  have  had 
a  better  upbringing  than  mine.  My  father  was  rather 
impatient  and  quick-tempered,  but  he  was  a  kind  and  up- 
right man  and  anxious  to  do  his  duty  by  the  son  who 
should  succeed  him.  My  mother  was  a  good,  gentle  and 
very  patient  woman.  She  may  have  loved  my  younger 
brother  better  than  she  did  me,  but  that  is  not  to  be 
wondered  at,  for  he  was  rather  frail  in  health,  and  a  sweet 
child,  clinging  to  her  very  shadow  and  never  quite  happy 
away  from  her.  But  she  made  no  difference  in  her  treat- 
ment of  us,  as  far  as  she  could  help  it;  it  was  I  who 
refused  to  be  tied  to  her,  and  was  impatient  of  her  warn- 
ings, and  even  of  her  caresses.  I  was  so  abounding  in 
life  and  spirits  that  I  could  not  be  still  in  the  house  for 
a  moment,  and  even  the  wide  bounds  of  my  beautiful  home 
were  too  narrow  for  me. 

I  suppose  I  was  born  without  a  conscience.  If  I  had 
one  it  has  never  troubled  me  much,  and  runs  a  very  bad 
second  to  worldly  prudence  in  deterring  me  from  any 
action  which  might  bring  unpleasant  consequences.  But 
I  had  so  much  of  everything  that  I  could  possibly  want 
in  my  young  days  that  I  was  preserved  from  committing 
any  grave  fault,  and  until  I  was  twelve  years  old  and 
first  went  to  school  I  had  done  nothing  that  the  world 
would  call  bad. 

But  directly  I  got  to  school  I  found  that  what  I  had 


THE    STORY    OF    THE    TRAMP         53 

considered  the  confinement  of  my  home  was  blissful  free- 
dom compared  with  the  discipline  I  now  had  to  undergo. 
So  I  determined  to  run  away,  and  did  so  without  any 
delay. 

I  might  not  have  been  seriously  blamed  for  this  fault 
had  I  not  stolen  money  with  which  to  make  my  journey. 
This  horrified  my  father,  who  was  a  man  of  strict  honour. 
He  gave  me  a  very  hearty  thrashing  and  sent  me  back 
to  school  again,  where  I  was,  of  course,  a  pariah  among 
the  masters  and  the  other  boys  for  what  I  had  done. 
It  was  a  mean  and  unpopular  boy  whose  money  I  had 
taken,  and  he  had  plenty  of  it.  Also  he  was  paid  back. 
But  that  did  not  prevent  his  being  raised  into  a  martyred 
hero,  or  me  from  being  ill-treated. 

So  I  ran  away  again,  and  having  no  money  of  my 
own  and  having  learnt  by  bitter  experience  that  it  did 
not  do  to  help  myself  to  that  of  others,  this  time  I  walked, 
begging  my  way  over  the  hundred  miles  or  so  that  lay 
between  the  school  and  my  home.  It  was  my  first  taste 
of  the  freedom  of  the  road,  and  I  should  have  enjoyed 
it  if  it  had  not  been  for  what  awaited  me  when  I  came 
to  the  end  of  my  journey. 

I  think  it  is  a  melting  thing  the  way  a  child  clings  to 
his  home  and  the  thought  of  it.  I  remember,  at  that  same 
school,  a  little  boy  who  slept  in  the  next  bed  to  mine. 
His  mother  had  died  when  he  was  born  and  his  father 
hated  him  for  it,  but  he  cried  himself  to  sleep  every 
night  out  of  longing  for  his  home,  such  as  it  was.  So 
I  at  that  time  made  for  my  father's  house.  I  did  not 
know  what  he  would  do  to  me,  and  I  feared  the  worst; 
but  my  mother  was  there,  and  I  should  sleep  again  in  my 
own  familiar  room. 


54  PIPPIN 

I  got  another  sound  thrashing,  but  I  was  not  sent  back 
to  school  again.  Indeed]  they  refused  to  take  me,  and 
I  was  taught  at  home  for  a  year,  always  under  the 
displeasure  of  my  father,  who  could  not  forget  that  I 
had  been  a  thief,  nor  let  me  forget  it.  Here  I  think  he 
was  wrong,  but  I  will  not  blame  him,  for  it  would  have 
been  impossible  for  him  to  steal,  and  he  was  unable  to 
understand  that  if  he  had  forgiven  me  my  fault  and  said 
no  more  about  it  I  should  have  been  ashamed,  instead  of 
irritated,  and  might  better  have  grasped  the  merits  of 
honesty. 

At  any  rate  I  was  glad  enough  a  year  later  to  leave 
home  for  school  again.  I  was  sent  to — but  I  will  not 
tell  you  the  name  of  the  school.  It  was  an  ancient  and 
royal  foundation,  and  I  have  reflected  little  credit  on  it. 
I  sometimes  come  across  old  school  fellows  filling  places 
of  honour.  More  than  once  I  have  been  committed  to 
prison  by  men  I  have  played  and  worked  with,  for  va- 
grancy or  some  such  offence,  but  I  have  not  made  myself 
known  to  them.  They  were,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  quite 
sufficiently  pleased  with  themselves  and  the  part  they 
played  in  the  world,  and  it  would  have  been  harmful  for 
their  souls  if  they  had  been  allowed  to  compare  the 
heights  to  which  their  good  conduct  had  brought  them 
with  the  depths  to  which  I,  their  one  time  companion, 
had  sunk.  Besides,  they  would  have  thought  it  necessary 
to  moralize,  and  I  dislike  above  most  men  your  moralizing 
magistrate.  To  my  mind  he  cuts  a  poor  figure  beside 
the  prisoner,  who  is  ready  to  take  his  punishment  when 
he  shall  be  allowed,  while  the  man  who  has  condemned 
him  to  it  will  go  home  to  be  surrounded  by  every  possible 
inducement  to  prudence. 


THE    STORY   OF    THE    TRAMP         55 

I  did  not  want  to  run  away  from  the  big  school.  I 
enjoyed  my  life  there.  My  early  peccadillo  was  not 
known,  and  I  started  on  fair  terms  with  masters  and  boys. 
The  good  opinion  of  the  former  I  did  not  retain  for 
long.  I  was  idle  and  troublesome.  But  that  did  not 
damage  me  with  my  school  fellows,  except  perhaps  the 
best  of  them,  with  whom  I  did  not  consort.  I  stayed 
there  for  five  years  without  getting  into  very  serious 
trouble,  learning  because  I  could  not  help  it  a  little  of 
what  I  had  been  sent  there  to  learn,  and  a  good  deal 
of  what  I  had  not. 

Then  I  went  to  the  University,  with  a  good  allowance, 
which,  however,  was  not  nearly  large  enough  to  compass 
the  many  new  desires  which  I  instantly  began  to  form. 
I  must  have  horses  to  ride,  and  others  to  gamble  over, 
wine  and  merriment,  women,  cards,  expensive  clothes  and 
jewelry,  and  all  the  toys  with  which  the  ill-regulated 
mind  of  youth  seeks  to  engage  itself,  when  present  pleas- 
ure is  everything  and  future  advantage  a  thing  to  scoff 
at.  The  old  Latin  poet — fragments  of  whose  wisdom 
still  cling  to  me — hag  described  such  a  one  as  I  was 
in  my  beardless  youth: — wax  to  the  bent  of  vice,  impa- 
tient of  those  who  would  have  crossed  me,  slow  to  lay 
up  useful  treasure,  prodigal  of  money,  aspiring  and 
greedy — and  the  rest  of  it. 

It  seems  to  me  that,  knowing  me  as  he  did,  my  father 
was  wrong  to  send  me  to  the  University  at  all.  It  is  a 
bad  place  for  the  sons  of  rich  men,  with  vicious  inclina- 
tions. The  small  measure  of  discipline,  which  is  enough 
for  the  well-regulated,  hardly  more  than  whets  the  appe- 
tite of  those  of  my  kidney.  Opportunities  for  running 
into  debt  are  almost  unlimited,  and  indeed  pushed  at  you. 


56  PIPTIN 

You  are  doing  no  useful  work,  for  your  future  prospects 
do  not  depend  upon  how  you  acquit  yourself,  as  is  the 
case  with  those  who  have  no  expectation  of  wealth  beyond 
what  they  earn  for  themselves.  You  consort  with  those 
who  are  situated  like  yourself,  or  who,  to  their  undoing, 
would  like  to  be.  You  have  companions  to  aid  and  abet 
you  in  whatever  folly  you  take  in  hand.  And  if  you 
manage  to  scrape  through  your  three  or  four  years  with- 
out falling  into  disgrace,  you  go  away  that  much  older 
than  you  came  and  no  better  fitted  to  face  the  life  that 
lies  in  front  of  you. 

I  need  not  say  that  with  my  inclinations,  and  the 
lack  of  conscience  with  which  I  have  already  charged 
myself,  I  was  not  long  in  such  a  place  before  I  fell  into 
disgrace.  When  I  had  been  there  a  year  I  was  enor- 
mously in  debt,  but  had  committed  no  flagrant  fault. 
The  debts  were  of  such  a  sort  that  I  had  to  disclose 
them  to  my  father.  He  paid  them  in  full,  and  I  am 
glad  to  remember  now  that  I  proposed  to  him  that  I 
should  not  go  back  to  the  University  but  should  do  some- 
thing in  the  *way  of  actual  work  instead.  Whether  I 
should  have  been  saved,  if  he  had  consented,  from  the 
ruin  that  afterwards  fell  on  me  I  am  not  quite  sure. 
Further  follies  I  should  no  doubt  have  committed,  but 
with  something  in  life  to  occupy  me  they  might  not  have 
been  so  serious,  and  in  time  I  should  have  woke  up  to 
to  the  value  of  what  I  should  be  throwing  away  if  I 
persisted  in  them.  At  any  rate  I  had  that  much  grace 
in  me  that,  whitewashed  as  I  was  by  my  father's  gener- 
osity, I  did  not  want  to  walk  back  straight  into  tempta- 
tion,   although   my   gratitude   did    not    carry   me   so    far 


THE    STORY    OF    THE    TRAMP         57 

as  to  resist  very  vigorously  when  the  opportunity  for 
wrongdoing  again  occured. 

My  father  had  gone  through  his  own  University  course 
with  some  credit,  and  his  father  before  him,  so  he  shut 
his  eyes  to  what  was  likely  to  happen,  and  told  me  that 
I  must  go  back  and  reform  in  the  very  place  where 
reformation  was  most  difficult.  I  said  good-bye  to  my 
mother,  who  was  very  tender  with  me,  and  to  my  younger 
brother,  who  was  all  that  I  ought  to  have  been,  and 
was  very  fond  of  me,  though  I  did  not  deserve  it,  and 
drove  away  from  my  home  in  an  easy  frame  of  mind. 
If  I  had  but  known  it,  I  had  crossed  its  threshold  for 
the  last  time. 

With  a  very  short  interval  I  plunged  again  into  the 
courses  which  had  already  brought  me  to  grief,  and  if 
anything  with  increased  extravagance,  for  I  now  had  to 
find  pleasure  to  drown  the  sense  of  wrongdoing  which 
had  to  some  extent  arisen  in  me,  as  well  as  to  satisfy 
my  naturally  voracious  appetite.  I  gambled,  among  other 
things,  more  wildly  than  ever.  At  first  it  was  mildly,  and 
you  might  say  within  my  rights,  for  I  did  not  succumb 
altogether  without  a  struggle.  And  unfortunately  I 
won,  continuously  and  for  some  time.  That  spurred  me 
on,  and  of  course  there  came  a  time  when  I  lost  very 
heavily.  I  had  no  means  of  paying  a  big  debt,  and  I 
could  not  go  to  my  father  again.  At  least  I  thought  I 
could  not.  I  believe  if  I  had  and  he  had  treated  me 
with  forbearance — it  would  all  have  depended  upon  that 
— I  might  have  reformed  from  that  time.  The  first  check 
had  been  too  easily  surmounted,  but  now  I  was  fright- 
ened of  myself,  and  for  the  time,  at  least,  sick  of  my 
follies. 


58  PIPPIN 

But  my  fright  drove  me  to  the  last  ruinous  one.  I 
forged  my  father's  name  to  a  cheque,  and  immediately 
I  had  paid  my  debt  with  it  woke  up  to  what  I  had  done, 
and  ran  away. 

You  may  believe  that  this  time  I  did  not  make  for 
my  home.  What  I  did  was  to  walk  straight  out  of  my 
rooms  with  a  walking-stick,  and  nothing  else  but  what 
I  stood  up  in,  and  what  was  in  my  pockets.  I  had  a 
favourite  spaniel,  which  I  had  brought  from  home,  and 
of  course,  he  wanted  to  come  with  me ;  but  I  was  out 
of  the  mood  for  his  gambols,  and  I  locked  him  in.  I  really 
did  not  know  at  that  time  whether  I  was  going  away 
for  good  or  should  come  back  after  a  long  walk  in  the 
country.  I  made  no  plans  at  all,  but  obeyed  the  instinct 
to  get  away  from  my  troubles. 

But  as  I  walked,  for  hour  after  hour  straight  on,  I 
know  not  where,  except  that  it  was  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion to  that  in  which  my  home  lay,  I  woke  up  to  the  fact 
that  I  was  in  flight,  and  that  although  I  had  not  known 
it  had  been  flight  from  the  moment  I  took  up  my  hat 
and  stick.  Having  once  realised  that,  you  will  find 
it  difficult  to  believe  that  my  spirits  rose  with  a  bound ; 
but  it  was  so.  I  had  wiped  all  the  past  away  from  me, 
and  had  leapt  into  a  state  of  absolute  freedom.  The 
prospect  of  walking  through  the  country — it  was  in  the 
spring,  rather  later  than  it  is  now — with  nothing  and 
nobody  to  bind  me,  was  delightful.  I  had  enough  money 
for  my  immediate  purposes,  and  as  I  had  never  known 
the  want  of  it,  as  far  as  the  necessities  and  most  of  the 
legitimate  luxuries  of  life  were  concerned,  and  had  never 
been  used  to  looking  forward,  it  did  not  trouble  me  much 
that  there  would   come  a  time  when  what  I  had    should 


THE    STORY   OF   THE   TRAMP         59 

be  exhausted.  Tired  as  I  was,  I  shouted  up  to  the  eve- 
ning sky,  and  I  believe  I  cut  a  caper  in  the  road. 

You  may  see  here,  if  you  like,  nothing  but  the  evil  of 
my  nature,  but  also,  if  it  please  you  to  be  generous,  some 
little  spice  of  good.  On  the  one  hand  all  the  sorrow 
and  dishonour  I  was  bringing  on  those  who  loved  me 
was  nothing,  because  I  myself  had  escaped  them,  and 
my  own  dishonesty  was  nothing;  on  the  other  hand  my 
pleasure  at  the  prospect  of  a  life  in  the  open  air,  devoid 
of  all  the  accessories  and  excitements  of  wealth,  showed 
that  I  had  in  me  tastes  which  if  they  had  been  properly 
cultivated  might  have  outbalanced  the  impulse  to  excess 
which  had  brought  me  down.  However,  it  had  lain  with 
me  if  anybody  to  cultivate  them,  and  I  had  not  done  so. 
And  no  doubt  you  will  say  that  the  evil  far  outweighed 
the  small  amount  of  good. 

At  any  rate,  the  idea  of  what  might  be  called  a  pro- 
longed walking  tour  did  immensely  exhilarate  me  at  the 
time;  although  if  I  had  foreseen  that  it  would  last  prac- 
tically until  the  present  day,  my  joy  might  have  been 
somewhat  dashed. 

I  ate  and  drank  at  an  inn  on  the  road,  and  walked 
on  afterwards  into  the  night.  Then  I  lay  down  to  rest 
in  the  loose  hay  under  the  shelter  of  a  stack.  I  was 
very  tired,  for  I  had  walked  above  thirty  miles,  but  I 
could  not  go  to  sleep  at  once.  My  thoughts  were  melan- 
choly now.  I  realized  that  I  had  cut  myself  off  from 
the  love  of  home,  and  even  from  the  companionship  of 
my  fellows.  And  one  of  the  causes  of  my  downfall  had 
been  that  I  set  great  store  by  companionship. 

As  I  lay  looking  up  at  the  stars,  comfortable  enough 
in  body  in  my  warm  nest,  but   rather   sad   at  heart,  I 


60  PIPPIN 

heard  a  scuffling  noise  near  me  in  the  stillness  of  the 
night.  I  sat  up  instantly,  in  alarm,  and  found  myself 
overwhelmed  by  the  joyful  caresses  of  my  dog.  He  must 
have  got  out  of  my  room  on  the  first  opportunity,  but 
how  he  had  succeeded  in  tracking  me  all  those  miles  is 
one  of  those  wonders  of  animal  intelligence  which  cannot 
be  explained.  lie  soon  snuggled  down  by  my  side  and 
I  was  pleased  enough  to  have  him  with  me,  now  that 
my  loneliness  was  beginning  to  be  apparent.  Here  was 
at  least  one  creature  in  the  world  who  loved  me,  and 
would  still  have  loved  me  if  I  had  been  twice  as  bad 
as  I  was.  My  melancholy  disappeared  and  I  slept  sweetly 
throughout  the  night. 

As  long  as  my  money  lasted,  and  afterwards  the  pro- 
ceeds of  my  jewelry,  which  I  sold,  I  kept  going,  some- 
times walking  a  prodigious  number  of  miles  in  a  day, 
sometimes  idling  in  a  place  that  suited  me.  I  was  quite 
happy.  I  suppose  I  was  much  in  the  same  position  as 
I  take  you  to  be  in  now,  a  young  man  in  the  full  tide 
of  his  strength  and  energy  who  travels  for  his  pleasure 
and  interests  himself  in  everything  and  everybody  he  sees, 
having  enough  to  pay  for  food  and  drink,  and  a  bed 
if  he  wants  one,  and  asking  nothing  more  of  life  for  the 
time  being.  I  was  so  entranced  with  the  freedom  and 
the  change  of  my  life  that  even  if  I  had  gone  back 
after  the  first  few  months  of  it  to  my  proper  station,  I 
think  I  must  always  have  broken  away  every  now  and 
then  to  tramp  the  country.  I  found  the  people  whom  I 
met  on  the  road  and  in  the  wayside  inns  every  bit  as 
interesting  as  my  old  companions,  and  when  my  appear- 
ance as  a  gentleman  had  somewhat  altered,  and  they  took 
me  more  readily  into  their  company,  there  were  roaring 


THE    STORY   OF    THE    TRAMP         61 

times  of  good  fellowship,  and  a  vagabond  life  which  was 
not  always  overclean,  but  to  which  I  adapted  myself  quite 
readily. 

My  wants  were  so  few  that  even  with  what  I  spent 
on  others,  for  I  was  still  prodigal  of  my  money  as  long 
as  I  had  any,  I  did  not  become  destitute  until  the  summer 
had  gone  by.  By  this  time  I  had  sunk  pretty  low.  I 
had  fallen  sheer  from  a  class  somewhere  near  the  top, 
to  one  at  the  bottom  of  the  tree.  Partly  from  youthful 
bravado,  partly  through  circumstances,  I  had  made  my 
companions  of  the  vagabonds  who  are  beneath  the  or- 
dered ranks  of  society,  and  boasted  that  they  were  as 
good  and  far  more  amusing  fellows  than  those  above 
them  in  the  social  scale.  So  they  were  as  long  as  I 
was  a  sort  of  king  among  them,  with  money  in  my  dirty 
pockets  and  no  great  disinclination  to  part  with  it.  As 
soon  as  I  was  brought  down  to  live  on  my  wits  like  the 
rest  of  them,  I  found  them  much  the  same  as  any  one 
else,  more  interested  in  their  own  affairs  than  in  mine, 
though  there  were  good  fellows  among  them. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  STORY   OF  THE   GENTLEMAN    TRAMP    (continued) 

And  now  having  wasted  my  substance  and  having  found 
a  diet  of  husks  little  to  my  liking,  my  thoughts,  like 
those  of  that  other  prodigal,  began  to  turn  to  my  father's 
house.  I  knew  what  hunger  was,  and  cold,  for  my  sum- 
mer suit  was  thin  and  worn  out,  and  I  had  no  money  to 
buy  warmer  clothes.  I  would  tramp  home,  confess  my 
faults,  which  had  long  since  become  patent,  be  forgiven, 
and  take  up  my  position  again  as  a  rich  man's  heir, 
having  spent  an  agreeable  summer  in  seeing  something  of 
that  side  of  the  world  which  is  mostly  hidden  from  men 
of  my  birth. 

It  was  a  pretty  programme,  but  it  did  not  work  out 
quite  as  I  had   anticipated. 

It  was  my  little  brown  dog  who  upset  my  plans-  He 
had  been  my  constant  companion  throughout  the  sum- 
mer and  I  had  congratulated  myself  a  thousand  times 
on  his  cleverness  in  finding  me,  though,  perhaps,  I  ought 
rather  to  have  congratulated  him.  I  had  come  to  a  place 
I  knew  very  well,  about  twelve  miles  from  my  father's 
house.  I  had  intended  to  reach  home  that  evening,  but 
I  had  been  making  forced  marches  on  insufficient  food, 
and  my  boots  had  given  out,  and  I  came  to  anchor  for 
the  night  in  a  larch  plantation  on  the  edge  of  a  big 
covert,  intending  to  push  on  early  in  the  morning,  get 
over  the  troublesome  business  of  penitence  and  reinstate- 
ment, and  sit  down  to  a  good  breakfast  in  a  clean  suit 

62 


THE    STORY    OF    THE    TRAMP         63 

of  clothes.  I  had  had  enough  of  a  roving  life  for  the 
present  and  I  looked  forward  with  keen  delight  to  the 
morrow  as  I  lay  under  the  stars,  thinking  hardly  at  all 
of  the  preliminaries  which  I  should  have  to  go  through 
before  I  got  everything  that  I  wanted. 

But  I  was  very  hungry,  so  hungry  that  I  could  not 
sleep  for  it.  I  could  hear  the  pheasants  stirring  on  the 
boughs  above  me,  and  presently  I  said  to  myself  that 
I  must  have  one  of  them.  I  knew  the  man  to  whom  they 
belonged  very  well, — I  had  often  shot  with  him  over  this 
very  covert — and  I  did  not  suppose  he  would  grudge  me 
one  fat  cock  out  of  them  all,  even  though  the  time  had 
not  come  to  kill  them  legitimately.  We  would  even  have 
a  joke  about  it  later  on,  when  I  had  settled  down  to 
the  blameless  life  of  a  country  gentleman,  as  I  now  meant 
to  do.  Besides  I  was  hungry  and  there  was  food  for 
the  taking,  and  I  did  not  really  trouble  either  about  him 
or  the  law. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  bring  down  a  bird  with  a  stone ; 
I  hit  an  old  cock  at  the  first  try,  but  he  was  only  wounded, 
I  think  in  the  wing,  not  killed,  and  when  he  came  to  the 
ground  he  ran  way,  and  my  dog,  delighted  at  the  sport, 
after  him.  Then  there  was  a  flash  and  a  loud  report. 
My  dog  was  killed,  and  I  was  struggling  fiercely  with 
my  hands  at  the  throat  of  the  man  who  had  done  it, 
while  another  was  beating  me  about  the  head  with  a  stick. 

They  soon  had  me  senseless  and  bound,  and  when  I  came 
to  myself  I  was  in  the  lock-up  with  a  doctor  attending 
my  wounds.  They  were  not  serious  and  he  soon  had 
my  head  bound  up.  I  knew  him,  but  I  could  see  that 
he  had  not  the  slightest  idea  of  who  I  was,  and  something 
made  me  hold  my  peace  for  the  present.     I  was  as  dirty 


C4  PIPPIN 

and  unkempt  as  any  tramp  of  the  road,  and  I  had  grown 
a  beard  during  my  summer  wanderings. 

I  was  brought  before  the  magistrates  the  next  morn- 
ing and  my  father  was  on  the  bench.  He  knew  me  the 
instant  I  was  brought  in,  and  his  face  went  white.  But 
he  made  no  other  sign,  and  allowed  the  proceedings  to 
go  on  to  the  end.  The  man  of  whom  I  had  thought 
to  borrow  a  supper  was  also  on  the  bench,  and  he  was 
an  angry  man.  I  had  trespassed  on  his  land,  I  had  tried 
to  kill  one  of  his  pheasants,  and  I  had  maltreated  his 
servant-  So  he  did  everything  he  could,  short  of  an  open 
scandal,  to  play  prosecutor  as  well  as  judge,  and  as 
there  was  no  doubt  at  all  about  the  facts  of  the  case, 
and  I  had  nothing  to  say  in  my  defence,  my  punishment 
was  made  as  heavy  as  the  magistrates  were  allowed  to 
make  it. 

The  idea  of  spending  some  months  in  prison  disturbed 
me  a  good  deal  more  in  those  days  than  it  would  now. 
In  fact  I  could  not  believe  that  it  would  happen.  Mv 
father  had  sat  on  the  bench  throughout  the  proceedings 
without  a  word,  and  he  had  silently  acquiesced  in  the 
rather  ferocious  sentence.  "He  must  be  turning  over  a 
means  of  getting  me  free,"  said  I  to  myself,  and,  as  he 
evidently  and  naturally  did  not  want  any  one  to  recognize 
me,  I  assisted  his  cogitations  by  being  careful  to  speak 
as  little  as  possible,  and  then  in  a  feigned  voice.  When 
I  was  taken  away  out  of  the  room  he  did  not  look  at 
me.     "He  will  do  something  now,"  I  thought. 

But  it  seemed  that  I  had  mistaken  his  intentions.  I 
served  my  time  in  prison  without  once  hearing  of  him, 
and  my  feelings  towards  him  were  the  reverse  of  filial. 
But,  partly  out  of  shame,  and  partly  because  I  still  hoped 


THE    STORY    OF    THE    TRAMP         65 

to  take  what  I  thought  my  proper  place  in  the  world,  and 
did  not  want  to  do  so  under  such  a  stigma  as  I  had  in- 
curred, I  did  not  disclose  my  identity,  and  nobody  guessed 
it  during  all  these  horrible  months. 

At  last,  when  my  time  of  release  was  drawing  near,  my 
father  came  to  see  me.  I  was  ashamed,  but  my  resent- 
ment was  stronger  than  my  shame,  and  I  reproached 
him  bitterly  for  not  lifting  a  hand  to  save  me.  He  lis- 
tened to  what  I  had  to  say  coldly,  with  a  look  of  such 
steady  aversion  as  brought  my  angry  speech  to  a  rather 
tame  conclusion. 

"If  you  have  quite  finished  what  you  have  to  say," 
he  said,  "I  will  speak,"  and  then  without  any  waste  of 
words  he  told  me  that  he  had  disinherited  me  in  favour 
of  my  brother,  and  that  if  I  ever  attempted  to  enter 
his  house  again  I  should  be  arrested  for  forgery. 

This  was  such  a  stunning  blow  that  I  could  only  sit 
and  look  at  him  with  my  mouth  open.  He  then  went 
on  to  say  that  when  I  went  out  of  prison  I  should  find 
five  pounds  in  the  hands  of  the  prison  chaplain,  with 
which  if  I  cared  I  could  make  a  new  start  in  life.  If 
in  a  year  from  that  time  I  wrote  and  told  him  that  I 
was  earning  an  honest  living — he  did  not  mind  in  what 
capacitj^ — and  he  satisfied  himself  that  I  was  speaking 
the  truth,  he  would  help  me  further,  although  he  would 
never  see  me  again.  If  I  preferred  to  waste  the  five  pounds 
in  what  he  called  riotous  living  it  was  all  one  to  him. 

I  saw  that  this  was  so.  He  had  lost  all  trace  of  fatherly 
feeling  towards  me,  and  only  looked  at  me  with  contempt 
and  dislike,  for  he  kept  his  eyes  on  me  all  the  time  he 
was  speaking. 

His  attitude  goaded  me  into  renewed  resentment. 


CO  PIPPIN 

"You  want  to  cast  me  off  altogether,"  I  cried.  "You 
don't  care  whether  I  reform  or  not." 

"I  don't  believe  you  can  reform,"  he  said  at  once. 
"And  if  you  press  me,  no,  I  don't  care." 

The  cold  brutality  of  this  speech  struck  me  anew. 
There  was  something  about  my  father,  stern  as  he  had 
always  been,  that  I  did  not  recognize.  "Doesn't  my 
mother  care?"  I  said,  bitterly,  and  struck  him  un- 
awares. 

He  seemed  to  shrink  into  himself  and  his  face  went 
white.  "Your  mother  is  dead,"  he  said,  and  then  he  went 
away. 

Well,  that  was  my  start  in  life,  my  real  start,  for  what 
had  gone  before  had  been  only  play.  When  I  came  out 
of  prison  I  was  in  a  state  of  extreme  misery  and  des- 
peration, and  I  strove  to  mend  it  in  the  way  taught  me 
by  the  lowest  of  my  late  companions,  and  with  the  help 
of  my  father's  five  pounds. 

I  am  not  a  born  drinker,  or  I  should  no  doubt  have 
been  in  my  grave  by  this  time.  I  drink  when  I  can,  and 
leave  off  when  I  have  had  enough.  I  soon  grew  tired 
of  that  poor  form  of  consolation,  which  is  none  to  a  man 
of  my  temperament.  I  bought  a  new  suit  of  clothes  and 
took  to  the  road  again.  After  my  time  in  prison  freedom 
was  enough  for  me.  I  had  neither  the  inclination  nor  I 
think  the  capacity  to  follow  my  father's  suggestion  and 
to  try  and  regain  something  of  what  I  had  lost  by  steady 
work.  Wrhat  could  I  work  at,  brought  up  as  I  had  been? 
I  was  of  use  neither  for  the  posts  by  which  educated 
men  earn  their  bread,  nor  for  manual  labour.  Besides, 
I  hated  my  father  so  at  that  time — I  have  forgiven  him 


THE    STORY   OF    THE   TRAMP         67 

now — that  to  merit  his  approval  was  no  spur  to  effort, 
and  the  date  at  which  I  would  get  more  money  from  him 
was  so  far  distant  that  I  put  the  thought  of  it  aside 
for  the  time. 

Well,  you  will  say  that  I  had  had  enough  of  the  fruits 
of  vicious  idleness  to  have  made  me  turn  from  it  to  any 
other  course.  But  it  was  not  so.  I  was  a  different 
man  in  some  ways,  but  I  was  not  a  better  one,  and  many 
of  my  old  inclinations  survived  the  shock  I  had  under- 
gone. I  had  been  a  vagabond  half  in  play.  Now  I  was 
a  vagabond  in  earnest,  and  I  have  been  so  ever  since,  for 
something  like  forty  years. 

There  are  degrees  in  vagabondage.  I  am  not  altogether 
a  rascal.  I  am  the  Gentleman  Tramp,  and  the  name 
fits  me  better  than  those  who  gave  it  me  imagine.  I 
have  tastes  which  are  not  shared  by  my  companions  of 
the  road,  and  I  believe  that  some  of  the  better  ones  have 
been  brought  out  bjr  my  way  of  life,  as  they  would  not 
have  been  if  I  had  lived  in  the  ease  and  luxury  to  which 
I  was  born. 

At  first  I  wanted  money — more  money  than  I  see  now 
to  be  necessary  to  a  man  who  throws  himself  daily  upon 
circumstance.  And  as  there  was  no  way  of  earning  it 
that  I  cared  to  trouble  myself  about,  I  got  it,  as  they 
say,  by  my  wits.  The  race-course,  about  which  I  knew 
a  good  deal  for  a  man  of  my  age,  seemed  to  afford  the 
easiest  opportunity,  and  for  some  time  I  was  a  diligent 
frequenter  of  race-courses,  which  I  got  to  know  better 
from  the  under-side  than  I  had  known  them  from  the 
upper.  But  I  got  tired  of  that  life,  and  the  contrast 
between  myself  as  I  was  and  myself  as  I  had  been  was 
painful.      Besides   I  was   recognized  more   than   once  by 


68  PIPPIN 

inv  former  companions,  and  that  w«as  more  painful  still. 
If  I  had  lost  my  hold  on  the  old  life  I  had  not  yet  lost 
hold  of  it  so  long  as  to  make  me  indifferent  to  the  change; 
to  in}'  old  friends  I  must  have  seemed  a  proper  black- 
guard, and  they  showed  me  in  various  ways  that  they 
thought  so. 

When  I  think  of  my  own  character  as  exemplified  in 
those  early  years  I  confess  that  it  interests  me  profoundly, 
as  I  hope  it  does  you.  I  believe  that  my  early  transgres- 
sions were  nothing  worse  than  the  sowing  of  a  rather 
noxious  species  of  wild  oats,  for  which  I  was  punished 
unduly.  I  was  dishonest,  but  so  are  most  people  in  one 
way  or  another,  only  they  learn  to  hide  it.  They  pray 
to  Janus  and  Apollo  out  loud,  and  whisper  a  prayer  to 
Laverna  in  secret — you  are  probably  not  scholar  enough 
to  understand  the  illusion.  I  should  never  have  committed 
a  stupid  dishonesty  again  if  I  had  got  over  that  bad 
fence  of  the  forgery.  I  have  said  that  I  never  had  any 
real  taste  for  drink.  The  race-course,  which  had  been 
partly  responsible  for  my  downfall,  sickened  me  quite 
early,  as  no  doubt  it  would  have  done  if  I  had  gone  on 
seeing  it  from  the  roof  of  a  drag  instead  of  from  amongst 
the  wheels.  I  grew  tired  of  greasy  packs  of  cards  as  I 
should  have  done  of  clean  ones.  Yes,  all  these  things,  even 
dishonesty,  which  many  estimable  and  highly  considered 
gentle-men  practise  all  through  their  lives,  were  so  far 
from  my  real  tastes,  that  I  did  not  want  them  even  in 
moderation  after  I  had  fleshed  my  youthful  teeth  on  them; 
and  having  given  them  up  what  did  I  do?  I  took  to  the 
road. 

I  bad  been  trained  for  the  life  of  a  country  gentle- 
man.     Supposing  my   youth   had   been   exemplary,  what 


THE    STORY    OF    THE    TRAMP         69 

should  I  have  done  after  I  left  the  University?  I  should 
have  spent  as  much  of  my  time  as  possible,  winter  and 
summer,  in  the  open  air,  earning  health,  appetite,  and 
sound  sleep;  and  the  more  entirely  I  had  devoted  myself 
to  field  sports,  the  more  I  should  have  been  thought  of 
by  everybody  around  me,  especially  my  father.  Very 
well  then;  in  esssence  that  is  exactly  what  I  did  do.  I 
had  sown  my  wild  oats,  and  settled  down — to  the  life  of 
the  road. 

I  took  it  seriously,  as  I  should  have  taken  the  other. 
I  tramped  the  country  winter  and  summer.  I  had  no 
money,  and  I  went  without.  I  went  without  every  other 
bodily  luxury  that  varies  the  life  of  the  most  ardent 
wealthy  sportsman.  I  never  looked  forward,  but  lived 
for  each  day  as  it  came.  And  so  does  he.  I  did  no  useful 
work,  and  he  does,  or  need  do,  none.  I  suffered  hardships 
of  necessity,  as  he  does  voluntarily ;  only  he  has  ease 
to  salt  them  and  I  had  none,  only  liberty,  which  perhaps 
is  better.  I  say  that  my  life,  take  it  day  by  day,  has 
more  merit  in  it  than  his,  and  that  having  sown  my 
wild  oats,  if  I  had  not  been  forced  to  reap  them  with 
such  disconcerting  rapidity,  I  should  have  been  all  that 
my  parents  or  any  one  else  could  have  desired  me  to  be. 

This  high  pride  with  which  the  Gentleman  Tramp  ended 
the  story  of  his  fall  from  place  and  fortune  differed  so 
greatly  from  the  melancholy  confession  with  which  he 
had  begun  it,  and  was  so  at  variance  with  much  of  what 
he  had  cynically  charged  himself  with  during  its  recital, 
that  Pippin,  who  was  no  fool,  though  he  was  young  and 
generous,  was  not  quite  convinced  by  it.  And  the  story 
was  hardly  finished.     But   it  had  taken  a  long  time  to 


70  P I  r  P I N 

tell,  and  they  hnd  now  come  into  the  streets  of  a  thriving 
little  town. 

"I  am  quite  ready  for  a  meal,"  said  Pippin,  "and  I 
hope  you  will  eat  with  me.  And  there  are  the  boots  to 
see  to." 

"The  meal  I  accept,"  replied  the  other.  "I  have  earned 
it  by  the  entertainment  I  have  given  you.  The  boots  I 
will  get  for  myself,  and  you  shall  see  how." 

They  walked  on  a  little  further,  and  the  tramp  led 
the  way  down  a  steep  side  lane  to  where  an  old  man 
in  a  leather  apron  sat  on  a  bench  in  a  low  doorway, 
cobbling  a  pair  of  shoes,  and  whistling  cheerfully  the 
while.  He  had  white  hair,  and  a  large  pair  of  spectacles 
on  his  nose.  A  parrot  in  a  wicker  cage  chattered  volubly 
by  his  side,  but  ceased  when  the  strangers  appeared,  to 
eye  them  suspiciously,  his  head  cocked,  muttering  every 
now  and  then  a  reminder  of  his  own  beauty.  There  were 
geraniums  in  pots  on  the  window-sill,  and  everything  in- 
side the  room  was  clean  but  v^ry  poor. 

"Look  at  these  boots,"  said  the  Gentleman  Tramp  in 
a  loud  and  confident  voice,  very  different  from  that  in 
which  he  had  been  telling  Pippin  his  story.  "I  bought 
them  off  you  the  last  time  I  was  in  this  town,  and  I 
vowed  that  I  would  wear  them  till  I  came  here  again  to 
show  you  what  sort  of  handiwork  you  fobbed  off  on 
me." 

The  old  man  examined  the  boots  closely,  peering 
through  his  round  spectacles,  and  then  looked  up  at  their 
owner.  The  black  coat  and  the  respectable  hat,  and  the 
voice  of  command,  outweighed  the  signs  of  mendicancy, 
which  he  was  perhaps  not  keen-sighted  enough  to  notice. 
"They  have  certainly  had  a  great  deal  of  wear,  sir,"  he 


THE    STORY   OF    THE   TRAMP         71 

began,  but  the  tramp  interrupted  him.  "Do  jou  deny 
that  you  sold  them  to  me?"  he  asked. 

The  old  cobbler  could  neither  deny  nor  affirm.  He 
said  he  did  not  remember.  "But  if  you  say  so,  I  suppose 
I  did,"  he  said. 

"Very  well,  then.  You  must  give  me  another  pair,  and 
I  will  say  no  more  about  it.  But  you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself  for  trying  to  take  in  a  gentleman  in  that 
way." 

The  old  cobbler's  face  fell.  "I  don't  think,  sir—"  he 
began ;  but  here  Pippin,  who  had  been  listening  with  rising 
indignation,   broke  in. 

"Give  him  another  pair  and  I  will  pay  for  them," 
he  said. 

"Generously  said,"  said  the  Gentleman  Tramp,  "but  I 
shall  not  allow  my  young  friend  to  be  cheated  out  of 
his  money,  as  I  have  been.  I  demand  a  new  pair  of  boots 
by  right." 

"You  will  either  take  what  I  offer  you  or  go  without," 
said  Pippin  firmly.  "Don't  force  me  to  say  more  before 
this  old  man." 

He  faced  him  squarely.  He  was  very  angry ;  and  the 
tramp,  after  a  further  look  into  his  eyes,  knuckled  under. 
"You  hear  what  the  gentleman  says,"  he  said  sulkily 
to  the  cobbler,  and  the  old  man,  delighted  at  the  turn 
the  affair  had  taken,  brought  out  a  rough  but  strong 
pair  of  boots  for  which  Pippin  paid  him  a  small  sum. 

The  Gentleman  Tramp  put  on  the  boots  and  he  and 
Pippin  walked  away  in  silence,  pursued  by  derisive  hoots 
from  the  now  reassured  parrot. 

When  they  came  to  the  main  street  Pippin  halted  and 
said:  "I  think  we  will  part  here.     I  will  give  you  money 


72  pirriN 

for  the  supper  I  promised  you,  but  I  want  your  company 
no  longer." 

"Oh,  come  now,"  said  the  tramp.  "You  know  my 
way   of   getting   what   I   want." 

"Yes,  and  I  call  it  a  dirty  way,"  replied  Pippin,  hotly. 
"As  long  as  you  exercise  your  buffoonery  on  such  men 
as  the  innkeeper,  who  is  willing  to  be  imposed  on,  I  have 
nothing  to  say.  But  to  rob  a  man  as  poor  as  that  old 
cobbler  is  a  different  thing,  and  shows  that  all  you  have 
been  saying  is  not  to  be  trusted.  I  will  have  nothing 
more  to  do  with  3rou." 

By  this  time  the  rudiments  of  a  crowd,  attracted  by 
Pippin's  honest  wrath,  had  begun  to  gather.  "Oh,  very 
well,"  said  the  tramp,  with  his  head  in  the  air.  "You 
and  your  supper  may  go  hang,"  and  he  walked  off  loftily 
without  turning  his  head. 

Pippin,  after  a  short  pause,  walked  off  in  the  opposite 
direction,  relieved  to  be  rid  of  so  undesirable  a  com- 
panion, but  rather  sorry  that  he  had  not  heard  more 
of  his  story,  which  had  kept  him  interested  throughout 
the  afternoon's  walk. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PIPPIN   MEETS    A    POOR    SHOPKEEPER    AND 
SOME    RICH    ONES 

Pippin  found  a  modest  inn  and  asked  if  he  could  have 
a  bed  for  the  night  and  a  meal  at  once. 

He  was  told  that  he  might  have  both  if  he  could  be 
content  with  a  dish  of  bacon  and  eggs  for  his  supper, 
and  would  share  a  room  with  another  traveller. 

As  to  the  first,  he  said  that  the  proposed  dish  would 
do  as  well  as  any  other  if  it  were  big  enough,  and  as  to 
the  second,  he  would  like  to  know  who  his  room  fellow 
was  to  be  before  deciding. 

"I  will  not  deceive  you,"  said  the  landlady.  "He  is  a 
travelling  pedlar;  but  a  very  sober,  honest  man.  He  lies 
here  every  time  he  comes  this  way,  and  I  would  not 
turn  him  out  if  you  were  to  fall  down  to  me  on  bended 
knee." 

"Many  a  man  would  be  glad  enough  to  do  that,"  said 
Pippin  gallantly.  For  the  landlady  was  a  very  person- 
able woman,  and  had  a  twinkle  lurking  in  her  eye  which 
betrayed  her  willingness  to   accept  a  pleasantry. 

"Go  along  with  you,"  she  said,  in  high  good  humour, 
"or  I'll  call  John  with  a  stick."  And  then  she  laughed, 
shaking  from  the  chest  upwards  as  full-favoured  women 
do,  and  a  merry  laugh  it  was.  "Well,  will  you  take 
the  bed?"  she  asked. 

Pippin  said  that  he  would,  and  went  upstairs  to  wash 

the  dust  off  him  while  his  supper  was  being  prepared. 

73 


74  PIPPIN 

There  was  no  sign  as  yet  of  the  pedlar,  who  was  per- 
haps replenishing  his  pack,  but  his  bed  stood  against  the 
wall  some  distance  from  Pippin's  own,  and  there  was 
plenty  of  room  for  both. 

Pippin  was  tired  alter  his  long  walk,  and  ravenously 
hungry.  The  room  in  which  he  ate  was  a  step  below  the 
pavement  of  the  street,  and  he  could  see  the  people  pass- 
ing to  and  fro.  It  was  about  seven  o'clock  of  a  fine  eve- 
ning, and  all  the  town  seemed  to  be  taking  the  air. 
''When  I  have  rested  a  little,"  said  Pippin  to  himself,  "I 
will  go  out  and  see  what  sort  of  people  they  arc,  and 
what  sort  of  a  town  it  is  they  live  in." 

The  landlady  brought  him  his  supper,  and  looked  in 
every  nowr  and  then  to  see  how  he  was  doing,  always 
with  a  word  of  encouragement  to  his  appetite,  which 
needed  none.  Towards  the  end  of  his  meal  she  found 
time  to  linger,  and,  with  an  obvious  curiosity,  said  that 
she  supposed  he  would  be  off  again  directly  he  had  fin- 
ished his  business.  She  did  not  know  what  that  was,  but 
hoped  she  knew  her  place  better  than  to  ask. 

"Oh,  my  business !"  said  Pippin.  "To-morrow  it  will 
be  to  walk  until  I  find  as  cosy  an  inn  as  this,  as  good  a 
supper,  and  as  handsome  a  landlady.  And  the  day  after 
it  will  be  the  same." 

"Hark  at  him  now  !"  she  said.  "It  would  be  a  bad  day 
for  us  women  if  we  believed  all  the  nonsense  that  gay 
young  sparks  like  you  chose  to  talk  to  us.  You've  got  a 
sweetheart  of  your  own  at  home,  I'll  be  bound,  and  you 
ought  to  be  thinking  of  her." 

"I've  got  a  father  and  mother  at  home,  and  a  horse 
and  a  dog,"  said  Pippin ;  "and  that  is  all  I've  got,  and 


PIPPIN   MEETS   A    SHOPKEEPER      75 

all  I  want."  Perhaps  he  forgot  his  cousin  Alison.  Per- 
haps he  did  not  want  her  name  brought  in. 

"Then  you  have  come  away  from  home  to  find  a  sweet- 
heart." 

"Wrong  again,  my  dear  woman.  But  if  I  had  I 
should  go  no  farther  than  this  town." 

"Oh,  she  is  here,  is  she?  I  thought  we  should  get  at 
what  brought  you.  Is  she  fair  or  dark,  short  or  tall? 
Is  her  father  a  rich  man  or  does  he  work  for  his  bread? 
Is  she  young  with  a  pretty  face,  or  old  with  a  fat  purse? 
Does  she  make  eyes  at  you,  or  pretend  to  scorn  you? 
What  street  does  she  live  in,  and  what  house?  I  know 
all  the  marriageable  maids  in  this  town,  and  though  I 
wouldn't  ask  a  bold  question  for  a  fortune,  give  me  a 
hint  and  I'll  tell  you  whether  to  stay  and  see  it  through, 
or  go  back  the  way  you  came." 

"She  is  dark,  plump,  and  comely,"  replied  Pippin.  "I 
don't  know  whether  she  has  a  father — or  even  a  husband. 
She  may  have  a  fat  purse  for  all  I  know,  and  I  hope 
she  has,  but  her  face  is  better  than  the  fattest  purse  that 
ever  weighed  down  a  pocket.  She  lives  in  this  street  and 
this  house,  and  her  name  is — well,  I  don't  know  what 
your  name  is,  but  if  you  would  like  to  change  it  for  mine 
you  are  welcome." 

For  answer  the  landlady  put  her  hand  out  of  the  door 
and  called  out,  "John !  John !  Come  you  here." 

Pippin  went  on  eating  and  awaited  the  arrival  of 
John,  who  came  in  with  a  touch  of  his  forelock,  wiping 
his  mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  He  was  a  man 
who  lived  amongst  horses,  as  the  shape  of  his  gaitered 
legs  testified. 


'6  PIPPIN 


« 


'John,"  said  the  landlad}'.  "I  have  had  an  offer  of 
marriage,  and  a  good  one." 

"Then  I  should  take  it,  missus,"  returned  John, 
promptly.  "At  your  age  they  are  not  to  be  picked 
up  every  day." 

"You  go  out  to  your  yard,"  said  the  landlady,  sud- 
denly irate,  and  bustled  the  bow-legged  chuckling  John 
out  of  the  doorway.  Then  she  turned  upon  Pippin.  "And 
you,  young  gentleman,"  she  said  severely,  "don't  you 
play  off  your  impudent  pranks  on  a  respectable  woman 
who  is  old  enough  to  be  your  mother — at  least,  will  be 
in  five  or  six  years'  time — or  a  bit  over.  I've  buried  one 
husband,  and  a  bad  one  he  was  to  me,  and  if  I  take 
another  it  won't  be  a  baby  just  out  of  his  cradle,  but  a 
man  of  years  and  sense." 

"Such  as  our  friend  John,"  said  Pippin,  unabashed 
by  this  sudden  change  of  weather.  "I  should  think  he 
would  make  you  a  good  one." 

"If  I  chose  to  take  him,"  said  the  landlady,  tossing 
her  head,  "it  would  be  a  step  up  in  the  world  for  him 
and  a  step  down  for  me." 

"Oh,  never  mind  about  that,"  said  Pippin.  "There 
are  no  steps  when  a  man  and  a  woman  walk  along  hap- 
pily together.  Their  road  lies  on  the  level,  or  after  a 
time  very  gently  down  hill." 

"There's  some  sense  in  your  head,  as  well  as  a  great 
deal  of  nonsense,"  said  the  landlady.  "Well,  to  be  candid 
with  you,  I  have  half  a  mind  sometimes  to  take  John. 
He  is  as  sober  as  he  need  be,  and  though  he  has  a 
taste  for  the  flurry  of  a  petticoat  above  what  is  becom- 
ing in  a  man  of  his  years  I  would  undertake  to  break 
him  of  that." 


PIPPIN    MEETS   A    SHOPKEEPER      77 

"He  consoles  himself  with  the  maids,  not  daring  to 
look  as  high  as  the  mistress." 

"You  think  that  is  it?"  said  the  landlady  doubtfully. 

"Whv,  of  course  it  is,"  answered  Pippin.  "Give  him  a 
sign  of  encouragement  and  you  will  soon  have  him  at 
your  feet." 

"Well,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  have  given  him  several, 
in  one  way  or  another.  Yes,  I  would  take  him,  if  he 
could  make  up  his  mind  to  ask  me.  But  he  doesn't  seem 
able  to." 

"Then  you  must  ask  him,"  said  Pippin  decidedly,  and 
with  that  they  left  it,  very  good  friends  with  one  another. 

Pippin  went  out  to  see  the  town  when  he  had  eaten 
his  supper.  The  twilight  was  now  falling,  and  a  saffron 
light  lay  over  the  roofs  and  chimneys.  But  the  streets 
were  still  full  of  the  townsfolk  taking  the  air  after  the 
labours  of  the  day.  There  were  sober  citizens  with  their 
wives  and  sometimes  with  their  children,  there  were  boys 
and  girls,  playing  the  old  game  which  makes  of  the 
meanest  place  a  paradise  for  youth  and  hope. 

This  place  was  not  at  all  of  the  meanest.  The  street, 
towards  the  lower  end  of  which  lay  Pippin's  inn,  was  broad 
and  clean.  There  were  shops  in  it  that  looked  as  if  their 
owners  were  thriving,  and  every  now  and  then  an  old 
house,  not  yet  dispossessed  by  the  new  order  of  things, 
which  showed  that  the  prosperity  of  the  town  was  of 
some  standing.  At  the  summit  of  the  low  hill  on  which 
it  was  built  was  a  broad  market-place  with  the  bigger 
shops  around  it,  on  one  side  of  the  square  the  town 
hall,  an  old  stone  building  with  a  high  roof,  and  on  an- 
other the  church,  where  these  good  people  gathered  on 


78  PIP PIN 

Sundays,  as  many  as  had  a  mind  to  lay  aside  the  cares  of 
the  week,  and  some  few  besides. 

Watching  the  people  pass  to  and  fro,  and  greet  one 
another  continually,  as  if  they  were  one  very  large  fam- 
ily, of  which  there  was  not  a  member  who  had  no  friends 
amongst  the  rest,  it  came  into  Pippin's  mind  that  life 
in  a  town  such  as  this  might  be  very  agreeable.  Its  in- 
habitants were  not  cut  off  from  the  pleasures  of  the  coun- 
try, which  lay  all  about  them,  and  they  had  in  addition 
the  society  of  their  fellows,  the  lack  of  which  makes  those 
who  dislike  solitude  dread  the  life  of  the  open  country 
in  spite  of  its  attractions. 

"If  I  had  been  brought  up  in  a  town,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "I  wonder  if  I  should  have  been  more  contented." 
He  was  not  yet  wise  enough  to  know  that  the  most 
philosophical  of  mortals  are  not  free  from  the  contradic- 
tion of  valuing  above  its  worth  the  situation  in  which 
they  do  not  find  themselves,  even  although  they  may  de- 
liberately have  rejected  it. 

He  would  have  liked  to  talk  with  one  of  the  prosper- 
ous tradesmen  of  the  place  and  hear  all  about  his  cir- 
cumstances ;  but  all  the  big  shops  were  shut,  and  even  if 
they  had  not  been  it  was  probable  that  the  most  pros- 
perous of  those  who  owned  them  would  not  have  found 
time  to  satisfy  his  curiosity,  since  prosperity  comes  from 
action  and  not  from  talking  about  it. 

He  did  find  one  small  shop  open  in  a  side  street,  and 
a  pale  youngish  woman  behind  the  counter  with  a  child 
clinging  to  her  skirts.  She  was  tidying  her  meagre  stock 
for  the  night — it  consisted  of  children's  toys,  articles 
of  stationery,  a  few  books,  and  a  thousand  and  one  use- 
less flimsy  articles  which  it  is  a  wonder  that  any  one  takes 


PIPPIN   MEETS   A    SHOPKEEPER      79 

the  trouble  to  make,  or  that  having  been  made  they  should- 
find  a  purchaser.  Her  eyes  brightened  when  Pippin 
came  in,  and  he  was  sorry  that  his  purchases  only  came  to 
a  few  pence;  so  he  bought  a  shilling  toy  and  gave  it  to 
the  little  child,  and  all  three  of  them  were  pleased. 

The  woman  told  him  that  it  was  a  hard  task  to  wring 
a  livelihood  out  of  her  shop,  when  all  her  expenses  were 
met.  She  had  been  brought  up  to  better  things.  Her 
husband  had  been  a  schoolmaster,  and  they  were  very 
happy  together.  He  had  saved  money  and  set  up  a 
school  of  his  own.  They  were  just  beginning  to  make 
money  when  he  died,  and  she  had  embarked  what  little 
remained  to  her  when  his  affairs  were  settled  in  this  busi- 
ness. But  she  was  inexperienced.  She  had  paid  ready 
money  for  all  her  stock,  but  much  of  it  was  unsaleable, 
and  out  of  what  every  one  could  sell  there  were  small 
profits  to  be  made.  If  she  could  begin  entirely  afresh  she 
thought  she  might  do  well,  for  she  knew  now  what  people 
wanted,  and  there  were  many  who  would  give  her  custom 
for  the  sake  of  her  husband,  who  had  been  much  respected 
in  the  place.  But  she  had  no  capital  for  a  fresh  start, 
and  knew  of  no  one  who  would  lend  her  any. 

And  there  was  another  trouble.  The  big  shop  round 
the  corner,  owned  by  a  man  whose  name  she  mentioned, 
was  extending  to  different  branches  of  business.  She 
had  heard  that  a  stationery  department  would  soon  be 
opened,  and  she  feared  that  that  would  take  away  the 
small  remnant  of  trade  that  remained  to  her.  "It  is 
the  big  crushing  out  the  little,"  she  said.  "It  goes  on  all 
over  the  world.  But  I  think  he  might  have  left  my  line 
of  business  alone.  I  believe  he  expects  to  make  very  little 
out  of  it.     He  came  in  here  the  other  dav  and  asked  me 


80  PIPPIN 

many  questions  about  the  value  of  my  stock  and  cried 
it  down  whin  I  told  him.  He  said  that  what  I  had  got 
would  be  nobody's  loss,  and  there  was  nothing  in  the 
business  even  if  it  were  carried  on  properly.  But  it  means 
my  livelihood,  and  its  loss  my  ruin." 

Pippin  went  hack  to  his  inn  rather  saddened.  He 
wished  he  could  have  helped  this  poor  woman,  who  tried 
so  hard  to  make  a  living  for  herself  and  her  child.  He 
thought  it  quite  likely  that  with  another  start  she  might 
do  so,  for  she  was  well-spoken  and  seemed  to  have  energy ; 
and  the  poor  stock  which  she  did  possess  was  displayed 
with  ingenious  care  to  conceal  its  deficiencies.  He  also 
felt  indignant  against  the  man  who  was  going  to  take  from 
her  the  little  she  had,  and  came  to  sneer  at  it  before 
doing  so. 

He  found  half  a  dozen  men  sitting  in  the  parlour 
where  he  had  eaten  his  supper,  their  glasses  on  the  table 
in  front  of  them.  They  were  all  well-to-do  in  appearance 
and  none  were  young.  He  would  have  drawn  back,  but 
one  of  them,  a  stout  middle-aged  man  wearing  a  heavy 
gold  watch-chain  and  a  diamond  ring,  and  smoking  a 
cigar  where  the  rest  were  content  with  clay  pipes,  called 
out  to  him. 

"Come  in,  sir,  come  in,"  he  said,  "and  take  a  glass 
with  us.  Hi,  Mary !"  he  called  out.  "Here's  another 
order  for  you.  Come,  bustle  up.  What  is  it  to  be,  sir, 
ale  or  spirits? — wine,  if  you  like,  for  trade's  good  and 
I've  got  my  share  of  it." 

"Wine  for  him?"  said  the  landlady,  who  had  answered 
to  the  call.  "He  doesn't  want  wine.  He's  a  nice  lad,  and 
mv  good  ale  just  suits  his  complexion." 

So    a    tankard    was    brought    for    Pippin,    and   he    sat 


PIPPIN    MEETS    A    SHOPKEEPER      81 

down  with  the  rest.  Having  made  him  welcome,  they 
troubled  about  him  no  more,  but  went  back  to  their  con- 
versation, which  had  to  do  with  trade  and  the  making  of 
money. 

The  dispute,  if  dispute  it  could  be  called  that  was 
nothing  more  than  the  airing  of  different  views,  which 
salts  the  intercourse  of  good  friends,  seemed  to  hinge 
upon  the  question  as  to  when  a  man  had  enough. 

"I  say,"  said  a  small,  shrunken  man,  with  grey  hair 
and  rather  untidy  clothes,  "that  when  a  man  has  enough 
to  live  in  the  house  in  which  he  was  born,  in  the  way 
in  which  he  was  brought  up,  he  ought  to  leave  his  work 
and  make  way  for  younger  folk.  I've  no  fancy  for  what 
is  called  bettering  yourself.  I  like  old  friends  and  old 
ways.     Getting  rich  means  getting  trouble." 

"Ah,  that's  all  very  well  for  you,"  said  Pippin's  host, 
who  seemed,  by  his  superior  prosperity  to  be  acknowledged 
as  the  leader  and  informal  chairman  of  the  gathering. 
"That's  all  very  well  for  you.  You're  a  man  with  a 
hobby.  Give  you  a  book  of  good  print  and  you  won't 
need  a  book  ruled  for  cash.  And  besides,  you're  a  warm 
man,  and  have  an  old-established  business  that  runs  itself, 
if  I  may  say  so.     Your  heart  is  not  in  it." 

The  old  man  puffed  in  silence  under  this  charge,  while 
another  man  with  rather  a  discontented  look  said :  "If 
you  sold  books  instead  of  corn  you  wouldn't  want  to  leave 
your  business  till  it  left  you.  The  great  thing  is  to  deal 
in  what  you  take  an  interest  in ;  and  I  wish  I  did." 

"There's  not  a  particle  of  sense  in  that,"  said  a  stout, 
jolly-looking  man  with  smooth  black  hair;  and  added, — 
"in  a  manner  of  speaking,"  to  take  the  edge  off  his  words. 
"You  trade  to  make  money.     I  don't  take  more  interest 


82  P I P  P  I N 

in  beef  and  mutton  than  I  do  in  any  other  good  victuals, 
but  I  make  my  living  out  of  them  and  cut  them  up  with 
a  cheerful  heart.  When  I  have  made  enough,  why  I'll  go 
on  and  make  more.  It  is  a  warming  thing  to  make  more 
money  than  you  want  to  spend." 

"That's  it,"  said  the  man  with  the  cigar.  "But  you 
must  take  a  pride  in  your  business  too.  And  if  you  do 
so  well  with  it  that  you  raise  yourself  a  step  higher  in  the 
world,  why  so  much  the  better." 

This  last  saying  did  not  meet  with  universal  approval. 
The  old  book-loving  cornfactor  grunted  dissent,  and  the 
discontented-looking  man,  who  was  an  undertaker,  with- 
out that  satisfaction  in  the  circumstances  of  woe  which 
upholds  a  man  who  plies  the  most  mournful  of  all  trades, 
said,  "Give  me  a  clean  trade  and  the  company  of  my 
equals  and  I'll  leave  that  of  my  betters  alone." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  applause,  and  a  thin,  sandy- 
haired  man  said :  "That's  sense,  that  is.  My  business, 
as  you  all  know,  takes  me  to  the  houses  of  the  gentry, 
and  I  often  think  to  myself  as  I'm  seeing  them  out  of 
an  old  house  or  into  a  new  one,  or  laying  a  carpet,  or 
suchlike:  'You  don't  live  better  than  me,  though  you 
spend  more  money,  perhaps  more  than  you've  got,  which 
don't  make  for  peace  of  mind.  Furthermore,'  I  say  to 
them — if  they're  not  by — 'you  live  here  alone  in  your 
glory,  and  you  see  such  of  your  neighbours  as  are  good 
enough  for  you,  if  you  ask  them  or  they  ask  you.  But 
whenever  I  want  to  see  a  friend,  I  step  in  round  the  cor- 
ner and  do  it,  or  he  steps  in  and  sees  me.  My  friends 
are  all  about  me,  and  this  very  night  I  shall  drink  a 
glass  and  enjoy  a  talk  with  men  I've  grown  up  with; 
and  they  know  and  like  me,  and  I  know  and  like  them.' : 


PIPPIN    MEETS   A    SHOPKEEPER      83 

At  this  generous  compliment  the  murmured  applause 
was  renewed,  and  a  quiet  man  who  had  not  yet  spoken, 
said :  "Trade  is  the  best  calling  in  the  world,  and  no  man 
ought  to  want  to  get  above  it." 

The  man  with  the  cigar  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
as  they  spoke,  with  a  good-humoured  tolerance.  "Come 
now,  neighbours,"  he  said,  "is  this  aimed  at  the  little 
box  I've  built  myself  outside  the  town — where  nobody 
is  made  more  welcome  than  you, — and  my  little  bit  of 
land,  or  is  it  only  general?" 

Addressed  in  this  way,  all  of  them  disclaimed  any 
particular  application  in  their  words.  "But  you  talked 
about  going  up  a  step  in  the  world,"  said  the  cornfactor. 

"Well,"  said  the  other,  "that  goes  with  successful  trade, 
and  always  has.  And  it's  more  for  your  children  than 
yourself.  What  I  may  have  in  mind  for  them  is  one 
thing,  and  what  I  practise  myself  is  another.  I  work 
hard  at  my  business  and  enjoy  it,  and  when  I've  put  up 
my  shutters,  I  enjoy  myself  with  my  family  or  else  with 
my  neighbours.  I  don't  want  to  step  above  them  and 
never  shall.  And  nobody  can  say  I  don't  take  my  share 
in  the  affairs  of  the  town." 

"You  do  well  by  yourself  and  by  the  town,  and  your 
neighbours  are  proud  of  you,"  said  the  upholsterer,  and 
addressed  him  by  the  name  which  the  woman  in  the  little 
shop  has  given  to  Pippin  as  that  of  the  man  who  was 
about  to  ruin  her.  Pippin  had  already  suspected  that  it 
was  his,  and  had  viewed  with  distaste  the  man's  com- 
plaisance. He  now  broke  into  the  conversation  and  all 
eyes  were  turned  on  him. 

"I  suppose  successful  trade  in  a  place  like  this  means 
crowding  out  the  unsuccessful,"  he  said  boldly. 


8i  PIPPIN 

"Well,  in  a  manner  of  spraking,  it  docs,"  replied  the 
butcher.  "But  there's  room  for  all,  and  live  and  let 
live  is  a  good  motto." 

"It  is  a  very  good  motto,"  said  Pippin  ;  "for  those  who 
keep  it.  I  have  just  come  from  talking  with  a  poor  wo- 
man who  would  like  to  see  it  carried  out.  She  has  a 
little  shop  of  her  own  and  is  just  about  to  see  her  trade 
taken  away  by  a  bigger  one."  He  fixed  his  eyes  boldly 
on  the  man  with  a  cigar,  who  coloured  a  little  and  looked 
away,  but  immediately  afterwards  faced  him  again  and 
took  up  the  challenge. 

"Come  now,  young  sir,"  he  said,  "you  have  been  hear- 
ing a  tale  of  my  new  venture,  I  take  it." 

"Yes,  I  have,"  said  Pippin.  "And  though  I  thank 
you  for  your  hospitality  I  would  not  have  accepted  it  if 
I  had  known  who  you  were." 

"Well,  we'll  leave  that  alone  for  a  moment.  You  can 
speak  your  mind  just  the  same.  You  think  I  ought  to 
leave  a  branch  of  business  alone  that  I  can  do  well,  be- 
cause I  shall  cut  across  somebody  else  who  is  doing  it 
badly." 

"She  would  do  it  very  well  if  she  had  some  money 
to  make  a  new  start  with." 

"That's  as  may  be.  But  she  hasn't  got  the  money, 
and  I  have.     What  have  you  got  to  say  to  that?" 

"That  I  think  you  might  spare  her  a  little  of  it." 

The  man  with  a  cigar  laughed  cheerfully.  "Oh,  that 
is  how  you  would  conduct  a  business,  is  it?"  he  said. 
"■Well,  my  young  friend,  I  don't  think  you  would  conduct 
it  long.      I  don't  know  what  my  neighbours  think." 

"Business  isn't  charity,"  said  the  undertaker,  and  the 
rest  agreed  with  him. 


PIPPIN    MEETS    A    SHOPKEEPER      85 

"That's  very  plain  to  see,"  said  Pippin,  nettled  at 
their  indifference.  "I  suppose  I  am  in  the  company  of 
the  most  considerable  tradespeople  in  this  town,  and  there 
isn't  one  who  has  a  thought  of  pity  for  a  poor  woman 
who  is  going  to  have  her  means  of  livelihood  taken  away 
from  her." 

"You  mustn't  speak  like  that,"  said  the  old  cornfactor 
gravely.  "The  good  woman  you  talk  of  is  well  known 
to  all  of  us  and  we  are  sorry  for  her  troubles." 

"Oh,  sorry  I"  said  Pippin,  scornfully.  "That  won't  boil 
her  pot.'* 

There  were  signs  of  irritation  at  that  saying.  "Why 
don't  you  lend  her  the  money  for  a  new  start,  young 
gentleman?"  asked  the  upholsterer.  "It's  a  cheap  way 
of  showing  pity  to  ask  other  people  to  dip  their  hands 
in  their  pockets." 

"Because  I  haven't  got  any  money,"  replied  Pippin, 
"as  3"ou  probably  know.  If  I  had  I  would  lend  it  her, 
for  I  believe  she  would  do  very  well  with  it." 

"Trade  won't  thrive  on  borrowed  money,"  said  the 
undertaker,  and  again  there  were  murmurs  of  assent. 

"Well,  you  all  know  more  about  trade  than  I  do,"  said 
Pippin,  rising  to  his  feet,  "and  you  are  welcome  to  your 
knowledge.  But  there  is  one  thing  I  should  like  to  say 
to  3rou,  sir,"  he  added  turning  to  the  man  with  the  cigar. 
"It  may  suit  you  to  take  this  poor  woman's  living  away 
from  her,  and  as  it  is  all  in  the  way  of  business,  I  sup- 
pose you  are  quite  satisfied  with  yourself.  But  I  think 
you  did  a  cruel  thing  when  you  went  to  gloat  over  her 
misfortunes,  and  sneer  at  her  efforts  to  support  herself." 
"There,  that's  enough,  young  gentleman,"  said  the  man 
with  the  cigar,  with  a  change  of  tone.     "You're  young 


86  TIFFIN 

and  headstrong  and  can  only  see  one  thing  at  a  time. 
You  arc  quite  right  to  feel  pity  for  a  good  woman  who 
has  seen  misfortune,  but  you  are  quite  wrong  to  think 
that  her  neighbours,  who  know  her  much  better  than 
you  do,  don't  feel  the  same  pity,  and  more." 

"I  judge  by  what  I  have  heard  and  you  have  not 
denied,"  said  Pippin. 

"I  am  about  to  deny  it  now,"  proceeded  the  other. 
•'None  of  my  friends  here  know  what  is  in  my  mind  about 
my  new  extension.  I  don't  talk  of  a  thing  more  than  I 
can  help  till  I've  done  it.  But  they  know  I'll  do  what 
is  right  as  far  as  I  can  by  everybody.  They  know  that 
my  new  department  will  want  a  capable  head,  and  I  dare- 
say they  guess  who  that  head  is  to  be,  with  a  salary  that 
will  keep  her  and  her  child  in  comfort  without  a  bit  of 
anxiety  or  more  forethought  than  is  necessary  to  go  on 
day  by  day.  I  don't  say  that  I  should  never  lend  a  per- 
son money  to  start  a  business,  if  I  thought  they  could 
make  good  use  of  it — and  I  shouldn't  talk  about  it  if  I 
did — but  it  wouldn't  be  my  ordinary  way  of  doing  busi- 
ness. I  would  rather  help  them  by  helping  myself,  if  I 
saw  any  way  to  it;  and  that  is  what  I  am  going  to  do  in 
this  case." 

"Yes,  and  if  you  said  that  you  were  starting  a  shop 
of  that  sort  to  find  a  job  for  somebody  else,  nobody 
would  contradict  you,"  said  the  upholsterer. 

"I  shouldn't  say  that,  if  it  were  true,"  said  the  man 
with  the  cigar,  "and  it  wouldn't  be  true  here.  I  shall  do 
very  well  out  of  it." 

Pippin  had  sunk  from  the  height  of  indignation  to 
the  depth  of  shame,  during  the  progress  of  this  cnlight  n- 
ment,   and   could   only  hang  his   head   and   stammer  out 


PIPPIN   MEETS   A   SHOPKEEPER     87 

words  of  apology  for  having  so  misunderstood  what  was 
after  all  very  little  of  his  business. 

"Don't  you  think  anything  more  about  it,"  said  the 
man  with  the  cigar.  "You're  generous  and  hot-blooded, 
as  I  like  to  see  a  young  man.     There's  no  harm  done." 

Soon  afterwards  the  little  party  broke  up,  and  Pippin 
went  up  to  his  attic  bedroom,  where  he  found  the  pedlar 
already  ensconced  and  sleeping  sweetly. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

TlTVrS    SPENDS    A    DAY    WITH    A    PEDLAR 

There  is  no  telling  how  late  Pippin  would  have  slept  the 
next  morning  had  he  not  been  suddenly  awakened,  at 
about  five  o'clock,  by  a  loud  noise  in  the  room.  He  sat 
up  in  his  bed  startled,  and  saw  the  pedlar,  standing  *n 
shirt  and  trousers  by  a  large  wooden  box  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  and  looking  towards  him  with  a  face  of 
the  deepest  concern. 

He  was  a  little  man  with  a  mild  expression.  His  thin 
grey  hair  was  tumbled  about  his  head,  and  with  his 
bright  eyes  and  rather  aquiline  nose  he  looked  like  a 
gentle  but  rather  frightened  cockatoo. 

"Oh,  dear,  that's  bad,"  he  said,  as  Pippin  stared  at 
him.  "I  wouldn't  have  done  it  for  the  world.  Such  a 
sweet  sleep  as  you  were  in,  too !  I  meant  to  get  out  of 
the  room  as  quiet  as  a  mouse.  But  I  caught  the  lid  of  the 
box  as  I  was  tiptoeing  by  and  it  fell  with  a  crash.  Now 
do  lie  down  again,  sir,  and  go  to  sleep  and  I  won't  make 
another  sound." 

"Well,"  said  Pippin,  "as  you  have  wakened  me — and 
I  bear  no  malice  for  it — I  think  I  will  get  up,  and  set  out 
on  my  journey.  The  early  morning  hours  are  the  pleas- 
antest,  and  it  is  a  shame  to  spend  them  in  sleep."  And 
with  that  he  sprang  out  of  bed,  a  vigorous,  active  youth, 
seizing  the  gift  of  another  bright  day. 

"Now,  that  is  very  pleasant  hearing,"  said  the  pedlar, 

gratefully.     "It  is  what  I  feel  myself  and  the  rule  I  go 

88 


PIPPIN   AND   THE   PEDLAR  89 

by ;  and  to  find  another  who  thinks  as  you  do — why  that 
delights  a  man.  And  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  where 
your  journey  takes  you?" 

"Anywhere  in  the  wide  world,"  said  Pippin,  splashing 
cold  water  over  his  face  and  shoulders  and  his  close- 
cropped  head.  "With  you,  if  you  care  for  my  com- 
pany, and  are  going  to  meet  the  sun." 

"That  is  my  intention,"  said  the  pedlar,  "and  I  shall 
be  very  glad  if  37ou  will  walk  with  me.  But  I  must  warn 
you  that  I  do  not  cover  many  miles  in  a  day,  laden 
as  I  am;  and  I  do  not  keep  to  the  high-road,  where 
trade  flows  from  the  shops,  but  visit  the  out-of-the-way 
farms  and  cottages,  where  they  are  always  pleased  to  see 
me." 

"Then  for  one  day  I  will  be  your  companion,"  said  Pip- 
pin now  drying  himself  vigorously  with  a  rough  towel. 
"After  that  I  must  get  on,  towards  the  big  town." 

They  crept  downstairs  through  the  silent  house.  In 
the  kitchen  a  j^awning  servant  maid  was  laying  a  fire, 
sad  to  be  awakened  so  early  out  of  her  sweet  sleep  and 
finding  no  pleasure  in  her  work  as  yet ;  though  with  the 
bustle  of  the  day,  and  people  coming  and  going,  she 
would  presently  wake  up  and  take  her  share  in  making 
the  world  move.  The  stout  landlady  was  not  yet  to  be 
seen,  but  Pippin  had  paid  his  reckoning  the  night  before 
and  taken  adieu  of  her.  As  they  went  out  through  the 
stable  yard,  the  crook-legged  ostler,  John,  was  carrying 
pails  of  water.  "What,  running  away  so  early?"  he  ex- 
claimed, chuckling  sardonically.  "Ay,  and  well  you  may ! 
She'll  catch  you  else,  not  a  doubt  of  it,  and  put  you  in  a 


55 


cage. 

"The  cage  is  prepared  for  somebody  else,"  said  Pippin, 


90  PIPPIN 

"and  a  very  handsome  well-lined  cage  it  is,  with  the  door 
open  for  one  knowing  old  bird  bo  walk  in  whenever  lie  has 

a  mind  to." 

"Ay,  and  find  it  clapped  to  on  liini  when  lie  gets  there," 
returned  John.  "That  bird  will  take  his  seed  and  his 
sugar  and  his  hit  of  chickweed  outside,  thanking  you 
all  the  same  for  the  warning."  And  he  retired  with  his 
mouth  on  the  grin  into  the  stable. 

"Ah,  you  have  found  out  how  the  land  lies,"  said  the 
pedlar  as  they  went  out  under  the  archway  into  the  street. 
"That's  a  match  for  certain,  sooner  or  later,  and  I  expect 
to  hear  it  has  come  off  every  time  I  pass  this  way.  She's 
set  her  heart  on  him,  and  I  wish  her  joy  of  her  bar- 
gain. He's  a  wicked  old  rascal  for  a  man  of  his  age, 
though  a  good  worker.  But  a  woman  alone  is  a  flower 
unblown,  and  this  one  won't  be  content  till  she  gets 
her  mate." 

The  town  was  only  just  beginning  to  rouse  itself  as 
Pippin  and  the  pedlar  walked  through  its  streets  on  their 
way  to  the  open  country.  Smoke  was  rising  from  a  few 
of  the  chimneys;  servant  maids  were  kneeling  at  some  of 
the  doorsteps;  down  the  middle  of  the  street  went  one 
here  and  there  whose  business  called  him  out  early ;  but 
for  the  most  part  the  streets  were  empty  and  the  win- 
dows of  the  houses  still  close-shuttered,  while  behind  them 
lay  those  who  would  presently  rouse  themselves  to  carry 
on  the  work  of  the  little  town  and  sec  that  it  did  not  fall 
behind  the  rest  of  the  world  by  a  single  day. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  pedlar,  as  they  walked  be- 
tween the  silent  houses,  "that,  when  a  man  has  such  a 
few  short  years  of  sunshine  given  to  him,  he  is  wise  not 
to  waste  an   hour  of  it."     And  Pippin  agreed  with  him, 


PIPPIN    AND    THE    PEDLAR  91 

though  the  years  of  sunshine  that  stretched  before  him 
seemed  endless. 

"We  will  walk  along  the  high-road  for  about  five  miles 
to  the  next  village  if  agreeable  to  you,"  said  the  pedlar, 
"and  there  we  will  have  breakfast.  Then  I  take  a  side 
road  to  the  hill-farms  and  villages." 

So  they  walked  together,  Pippin  adapting  his  pace  to 
that  of  the  older  and  well-laden  man.  The  pedlar  carried 
his  pack  slung  by  a  strap  on  to  his  back  and  showed  a 
sturdy  stride  for  one  of  his  years  and  rather  diminutive 
size.  He  was  a  pleasant-spoken  little  man,  agreeably 
ready  to  suit  himself  to  his  company,  but  with  enough 
self-reliance  to  make  him  not  tiresomely  complaisant. 
"If  you  are  out  to  see  the  country,"  he  said,  "it  is  a  good 
thing  you  fell  in  with  me.  I  know  every  inch  of  it,  and 
the  places  I  shall  take  you  to-day  are  well  worth  seeing 
at  this  time  of  year,  though  they  lie  away  from  the  high- 
road." 

"I  walked  with  a  man  yesterday,"  said  Pippin,  "who 
told  me  that  those  who  live  the  life  of  the  road  never 
take  a  bypath.  They  miss  the  company,  and  I  sup- 
pose the  beauties  of  nature  do  not  make  up  for  it." 

"They  do  to  some,"  said  the  pedlar.  "To  me,  for 
instance.  I  love  the  fields  and  the  woods,  and  the  lulls, 
which  seem  to  speak  of  something  that  does  not  pass 
away.  And  as  for  company,  you  will  get  very  good  com- 
pany in  the  places  I  shall  take  you  to,  a  good  deal  better 
than  that  of  the  road,  which  is  used  by  a  great  many 
very  idle  rascals.  The  people  who  live  a  little  apart 
from  their  fellows  have  more  of  the  sense  of  home,  and 
to  my  mind  there  is  nothing  so  comforting  as  the  sight 
of  a  pleasant  home,  with  a  man  working  to  keep  it  about 


92  PIPPIN 

him,  a  woman  helping  him  in  her  different  way,  and  a 
family  of  children  to  tie  them  both  to  it.  And  when  it 
18  rooted  to  the  kind  soil,  with  trees  and  flowers  and 
fruit  about  it,  so  that  the  bounties  of  the  earth  wrap 
it  round  as  well  as  the  love  that  keeps  it  together,  then 
I  say  that  that  is  the  kind  of  home  that  God  meant  a 
man  to  enjoy." 

"That  is  the  kind  of  home  that  I  come  from,"  said 
Pippin.  "But  it  is  a  good  thing  to  leave  it  sometimes. 
You  will  like  it  all  the  better  when  you  return  to  it." 

"You  are  more  fortunate  than  I,"  said  the  pedlar, 
rather  sadly.  "I  had  such  a  home  of  my  own  once,  a 
humble  one,  but  I  loved  it.  I  had  a  young  wife  too  and 
a  little  child — it  was  many  years  ago.  But  they  both 
died,  and  since  that  time  I  have  taken  to  this  wander- 
ing life,  in  which  I  miss  them  less.  I  see  more  of  other 
homes  than  I  should  if  I  were  to  stay  in  one  place.  I 
have  friends  all  over  the  country,  and  wherever  I  go 
other  people's  children  give  me  a  welcome.  I  love  them 
very  much,  the  little  creatures  that  seem  to  know  when 
a  man  wants  them." 

"Do  you  keep  to  one  part  of  the  country?"  asked 
Pippin. 

"I  go  to  the  same  places  year  after  year,"  replied  the 
pedlar,  "but  some  of  them  lie  very  far  apart.  I  cover 
my  ground  twice  a  year,  and  I  walk  about  twelve  miles  a. 
day,  sometimes  more,  sometimes  less,  summer  and  winter, 
except  on  Sundays,  when  I  lie  up  and  rest,  generally  in 
some  quiet  place,  with  one  or  another  of  my  friends.  So 
you  see  I  am  not  without  the  happiness  of  home  life, 
though  I  sleep  in  one  bed  never  more  than  twice  in  a  year. 
I  say,  when  I  am  in  a  cheerful  mood,  that  I  have  a  hun- 


PIPPIN    AND    THE    PEDLAR  93 

dred  and  fifty  homes ;  but  I  need  not  tell  you  that  I 
would  give  them  all  for  one  of  my  own." 

"And  the  people  you  meet  on  the  road,"  said  Pippin, 
— "are  they  all  strangers  or  do  you  get  to  know  them 
too?" 

"I  get  to  know  some  of  them  very  well.  There  is  a  man 
I  saw  in  the  town  last  night.  I  have  met  him  here  and 
there  constantly  for  the  thirty  years  that  I  have  been 
carrying  my  pack.    They  call  him  the  Gentleman  Tramp." 

"Why,  that  is  the  man  I  walked  with  yesterday,"  ex- 
claimed Pippin.  "It  was  he  who  grumbled  at  my  taking 
a  bypath." 

The  pedlar  eyed  him  a  little  askance.  "You  are  not 
making  your  companions  on  your  journey  of  such  as  he?" 
he  asked. 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  Pippin.  "I  am  ready  to  make 
my  companions  of  any  one  I  meet.  You  can  learn  some- 
thing from  most  men,  and  I  learnt  a  good  deal  from  him. 
I  spent  most  of  the  day  with  him,  but,  not  liking  some 
of  his  habits,  I  got  rid  of  him  at  the  end  of  it." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  pedlar,  doubtfully.  "I  think  you 
should  be  careful  of  whom  you  travel  with.  You  will  not 
take  it  amiss  that  I  offer  you  this  advice.  I  am  very 
much  older  than  you,  and  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of 
those  who  make  what  they  call  a  living  out  of  the  road. 
That  is  a  very  different  thing  to  plying  an  honest  trade 
as  I  do,  and  calling  on  the  road  to  help  you.  There  is 
a  deal  of  rascality  among  those  gentry,  and  the  man 
they  call  the  Gentleman  Tramp  is  as  big  a  rascal  as  any, 
though  he  trades  on  his  superior  manners." 

"Do  those  who  know  him  believe  that  he  was  really 
born  a  gentleman?"  asked  Pippin,  with  some  curiosity. 


94  PIPPIN 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  pedlar.  "We  are  a  pretty  shrewd 
folk,  take  us  all  in  all — I  class  myself  with  the  rest,  for 
I  know  as  much  about  these  things  as  any.  There  are 
plenty  of  men  who  were  born  gentlemen  among  us,  not 
following  my  calling,  or  any  so  honest,  for  if  they  could 
do  that  they  could  do  something  better,  but  among  the 
true  vagabonds,  who  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  who  will 
do  no  work  at  all  if  they  can  eat  and  drink  without  it. 
They  differ  greatly;  most  arc  bad,  but  some  worse  than 
others.  But  one  thing  they  have  in  common;  they  are 
all  anxious  to  get  rid  of  the  last  remains  of  their  gentility. 
It  is  far  too  painful  a  matter  for  them  to  remember 
what  they  have  fallen  from.  They  will  tell  you  their 
stories  sometimes,  but  what  they  will  not  do  is  to  flaunt 
their  former  state  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  Now  this 
man  does  nothing  else.  He  lives  easier  than  most  of  them 
by  doing  it.  He  has  picked  up  the  trick  somewhere,  and 
finds  it  pays  him." 

"Well,"  said  Pippin,  "he  told  me  his  story  yesterday, 
and  it  was  such  a  story,  and  told  in  such  a  way,  as  he 
could  not  have  invented.  I  believe  him  to  be  a  gentleman 
by  birth,  but  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  his  ways  are 
crooked." 

"You,  surprise  me,"  said  the  pedlar,  "but  no  doubt  you 
know  the  signs  better  than  I.  And  I  will  tell  you  this: 
he  has  told  his  story  to  nobody  else  on  the  road.  I  have 
always  thought  it  was  because  he  had  not  got  one.  But 
there  is  something  about  you,  young  sir,  that  is  likely 
to  draw  confidences  from  people.  You  listen,  and  one 
thinks  you  feel  kindly  of  one." 

"I  hope  I  do,"  said  Pippin.  "I  have  left  my  home  and 
am  walking  through  the  country  to  sec  as  many  men  as 


PIPPIN   AND   THE    PEDLAR  95 

I  can  and  to  listen  to  their  stories,  if  they  will  tell  them 
to  me.  That  Gentleman  Tramp  told  me  yesterday  a 
little  about  his  life  at  a  University,  which  I  suppose  is 
a  place  where  rich  men  finish  their  education.  This  is 
my  way  of  finishing  mine.  I  will  make  the  road  my 
University." 

"Ah,  the  road!"  said  the  pedlar.  "A  man  gets  to  love 
the  road  as  if  it  were  something  human.  There  it  lies, 
patient  and  ready  for  use  night  or  day.  A  man  may  take 
or  leave  it  as  he  pleases,  go  either  way,  quick  or  slow,  on 
his  feet  or  drawn  by  horses.  It  runs  between  village  and 
village,  town  and  town,  as  it  ran  before  we  who  use  it 
were  born,  and  will  run  after  we  are  dead.  I  make  up  a 
good  many  stories  about  the  road  as  I  walk,  and  some- 
times I  tell  them  to  the  children  as  I  rest  in  the  middle 
of  the  da}r.  You  may  learn  a  lot  from  the  road,  and  it 
tells  most  to  a  man  who  treads  it  with  his  feet.  You  will 
go  home  wiser  than  when  you  left,  young  sir,  and  I  do 
not  think  you  would  learn  more  at  a  University,  especially 
if  it  is  such  a  one  as  turned  the  Gentleman  Tramp  out 
on  the  world." 

The  broad  high-road  on  which  they  were  now  walking 
had  woke  up  since  they  left  the  little  town.  They  passed 
slow-moving  carts,  drawn  by  strong  horses,  their  heads 
gravely  nodding  at  each  deliberate  heavy  step.  The  men 
who  had  piled  their  loads  walked  beside  them,  or  added 
themselves  to  the  freight.  What  the  good  earth  had 
yielded  they  and  the  stout  horses  were  carrying  from 
place  to  place  for  the  benefit  of  mankind,  and  the  road 
was  one  of  the  veins  or  arteries  by  which  their  merchan- 
dise was  spread  abroad  for  sustenance. 

Nearer  the  villages  there  was  more  frequent  work  for 


96  PIPPIN 

the  road.  lilue  butcher  boys  exulted  in  naked  speed, 
sleepy-eyed  bakers  jogged  along  with  the  crisp  loaves 
they  had  risen  betimes  to  knead  and  bake,  grocers  swung 
themselves  up  and  down  from  their  high  springs,  and 
lingered,  basket  on  arm,  for  a  moment's  affability,  low 
milk-carts  clattered  over  the  granite.  The  great  daily 
work  of  distribution  was  in  hand,  aided  by  the  road,  and 
the  willing  creatures  that  man  has  seized  upon  and  tamed 
to  that  end. 

Pippin  and  the  pedlar  breakfasted  at  an  inn  in  a  vil- 
lage that  ran  for  half  a  mile  on  either  side  of  the  road. 
In  the  middle  of  it  a  narrower  lane  ran  off  towards  the 
hills,  and  this  they  took  when  their  meal  was  done. 

It  ran  for  some  distance  on  the  level,  through  water- 
meadows  in  which  cows  were  grazing,  and  the  flowers  and 
weeds  were  already  beginning  to  grow  tall  on  the  margin 
of  a  lazy  river. 

Presently  the  road  began  to  rise.  The  river  was  now 
narrower  and  was  sometimes  lost  to  sight  amongst  trees, 
though  they  could  hear  it  singing  to  itself  in  its  more 
stony  bed.  The  woods  drew  together  and  were  very 
beautiful.  The  beeches  showed  a  haze  of  green  under  the 
blue  sky,  the  oaks  were  browner,  as  if  they  had  refused 
to  listen  to  the  call  of  spring  for  as  long  as  possible,  the 
ashes  were  budding  timorously,  but  the  stout  hollies 
laughed  at  them  all,  standing  up  in  the  glistening  mailed 
coats  in  which  they  had  defied  the  frosts  of  the  winter, 
and  the  yews  wrapped  themselves  in  their  sombre  cloaks, 
which  the  spring  was  freshening  up  for  them.  "They 
last  us  a  thousand  years,"  they  seemed  to  say,  "and  are 
better  than  the  flimsy  leafage  which  fades  and  is  cast 
away  every  autumn." 


PIPPIN    AND    THE    PEDLAR  97 

The  pedlar  led  the  way  through  a  gate  into  a  wood, 
and  he  and  Pippin  walked  along  a  broad  grass  ride  and 
presently  came  to  a  clearing,  where  with  a  little  garden 
and  a  little  orchard  and  a  little  meadow,  stood  a  cottage. 
They  went  round  to  the  back,  past  a  barn  upon  the  door 
of  which  were  nailed  a  various  assortment  of  birds  and 
beasts  of  prey,  such  as  work  havoc  with  the  fledglings  that 
it  was  the  duty  of  those  who  lived  in  this  cottage  to  bring 
up,  that  their  master  and  his  friends  might  shoot  them 
when  the  time  came.  The  coops  were  all  round  the  pad- 
dock. Broody  hens  were  confined  in  them  and  clucked 
warnings  to  the  baby  pheasants,  which  ran  in  and  out, 
and  accepted  these  dull-plumaged  heavy  birds  as  their 
rightful  protectors  without  question. 

A  busy  woman  came  to  the  door  of  the  house  when  the 
pedlar  knocked,  her  sleeves  rolled  up  to  her  elbows,  and 
her  arms  and  hands  white  with  soap-suds.  She  gave  the 
pedlar  a  very  warm  welcome.  "But  lor' !"  she  said,  "when 
I  tell  the  children  that  you've  been  here  while  they  were 
at  school,  there'll  be  such  a  to  do  as  never  was." 

"Never  you  fear,  mistress,"  said  the  pedlar.  "I  shall 
see  the  children,  with  all  the  rest.  I  shall  be  at  the 
school-house  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  I've  got  a  new  story 
for  them  which  I'll  be  bound  they  will  like." 

"That's  good  hearing,"  said  the  woman,  "but  come 
you  in,  and  the  young  gentleman  too,  and  take  a  bit  of 
something." 

But  the  pedlar  refused  this  invitation.  "It  would  be 
nothing  but  eating  and  drinking  and  no  trade  done,  if 
all  you  kind  people  had  your  way,"  he  said.  "You  know 
my  rule,  mistress." 

"As  for  trade,"  said  the  woman.     "You've  no  cause  to 


98  r  i  p  r  i  n 

grumble  about  that.  Let  me  go  in  and  wipe  the  soap  off 
and  get  out  my  old  teapot.  It  has  been  hoarding  up  for 
you." 

So  the  pedlar  undid  his  pack  and  displayed  its  con- 
tents of  buttons  and  threads,  and  ribbons,  and  women's 
knick-knacks,  and  when  he  and  the  keeper's  wife  had  put 
their  heads  together  and  he  had  wrapped  it  up  again,  it 
was  a  little  lighter  than  it  had  been  and  the  leather  bag 
which  he  took  out  of  his  pocket  the  heavier. 

"Now  the  next  time,"  said  the  good  woman  as  she  bid 
them  farewell,  "it  is  to  be  a  Sunday  visit,  and  I'll  take,  no 
denial." 

"You  see,"  said  the  pedlar  to  Pippin,  with  pleasurable 
pride,  as  they  set  out  again  through  the  wood,  "I  have 
my  friends.  There  are  very  few  of  the  people  we  shall 
see  this  morning  that  will  not  give  me  a  warm  invitation 
to  their  homes." 

And  so  it  was,  although  some  of  the  cottages  at  which 
they  called  were  humble  enough.  Everybody  was  glad 
to  see  the  pedlar,  most  of  them  offered  him  food  and 
drink,  and  the  hospitality  of  their  roof  when  he  should  be 
pleased  to  accept  it.  His  pack  grew  a  little  lighter  at  each 
stopping-place,  and  he  told  Pippin  that  he  had  to  replen- 
ish it  every  two  days  at  least.  Many  of  his  customers 
had  gone  without  things  that  they  needed  so  that  they 
might  buy  them  of  him  when  he  passed  that  way.  He 
aroused  so  much  goodwill  that  the  most  various  people 
were  touched  by  it,  and  if  a  woman  here  and  there  re- 
fused to  trade  with  him  it  was  never  done  with  dis- 
courtesy. 

They  \isited  cottages  by  the  roadside,  cottages  in  the 
woods,   in   the  fields.      They  were  welcomed   in  farmhouse 


PIPPIN    AND   THE    PEDLAR  99 

kitchens,  and  once  or  twice  at  the  back  doors  of  gentle- 
men's houses.  It  was  a  busy  morning,  but  a  very  pleas- 
ant one,  and  Pippin  presently  became  almost  as  proud 
of  the  popularity  of  his  companion,  as  was  the  pedlar 
himself,  in  his  innocent  way. 

At  noon  they  came  to  a  high-lying  scattered  hamlet  at 
the  lower  end  of  which  was  a  school-house.  It  stood 
among  pine  trees  on  a  little  rise  and  seemed  a  pleasant 
place  for  children  to  be  taught  in.  A  hum  of  voices 
came  through  the  open  windows,  as  the  pedlar  led  the 
way  up  the  steep  sandy  path  to  a  fallen  log  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  building. 

"We  will  sit  down  here,"  he  said,  "and  you  shall  see 
whether  the  children's  welcome  is  behind  that  of  their 
mothers  when  they  come  out  of  school  and  catch  sight 
of  me.'* 

They  took  their  seat  on  the  tree  trunk,  with  the  sweet 
odour  of  the  sun-warmed  pines  all  about  them,  and  pres- 
ently the  hum  in  the  school-house  rose  to  a  subdued  roar, 
the  door  flew  open  and  the  first  of  the  released  scholars 
shot  out  as  if  propelled  by  a  catapult. 

The  stream  of  flying,  whooping  children  set  towards 
the  road,  and  it  was  not  until  several  of  them  had  run 
down  the  path  that  one  turned  and  saw  who  it  was  sitting 
under  the  pines.  Then  there  was  a  shout,  and  the  stream 
changed  its  course  completely,  till  it  had  gathered  into 
a  sort  of  confused  pool,  with  the  pedlar  and  Pippin  on 
their  log  in  the  middle  of  it. 

"A  story !  a  story !"  cried  the  children,  and  the  pedlar 
said :  "Very  well,  I  will  tell  you  a  story,  but  you  must  all 
sit  down  on  the  ground,  and  those  of  you  who  have  brought 
your   dinners   in   your   bags   can   eat  them,   and    after   I 


100  PIPPIN 

have  finished  there  will  be  something  else  for  you  to  eat, 
if  you  listen  carefully." 

So  all  the  children,  with  some  expressions  of  pleasure 
and  some  pushing  and  nudging,  sat  down  on  the  warm 
carpet  of  pine  needles  and  one  or  two  little  ones  nestled 
up  by  the  side  of  the  pedlar  and  Pippin.  Some  older 
girls  too,  pupil-teachers,  came  out  of  the  schoolhouse 
and  stood  by  the  trees,  and  the  pedlar  welcomed  them, 
for  he  had  known  them  all  as  little  children.  But  it  was 
understood  that  the  regular  teachers  were  not  to  be 
present  at  these  story-tellings,  and  to  them  as  they  came 
out  of  the  door  and  went  down  the  path  he  only  waved  a 
greeting. 

"Now  what  sort  of  story  shall  it  be?"  asked  the  pedlar 
when  all  were  seated,  and  the  girls  asked  for  fairies,  and 
the  boys  for  giants  and  pirates. 

"I  will  tell  you  a  new  kind  of  story  this  time,"  he  said, 
"which  I  have  made  up  as  I  walked  along  the  road  going 
from  one  place  to  another."  And  he  told  them  the  story 
of  the  Road  and  the  Field. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE      ROAD    AND    THE    FIELD 

There  was  once  a  field,  on  the  outskirts  of  a  large  farm. 
Once  a  year  it  was  ploughed,  once  a  year  it  was  sown, 
and  once  a  year  it  was  reaped ;  and  for  the  rest  of  the  time 
it  was  left  to  the  sun  and  the  rain  and  the  frost,  which 
between  them  helped  it  to  do  the  work  entrusted  to  it. 

Sometimes  the  farmer  rode  up  to  see  what  was  going 
on,  not  because  he  could  not  trust  the  field  to  do  its 
appointed  work  if  left  to  itself,  but  for  his  own  satisfac- 
tion, and  perhaps  a  little  because  he  pitied  its  solitude. 
For  it  was  bounded  on  three  sides  by  a  wood,  and  at  the 
upper  end  by  a  heath,  and  there  was  no  road  or  path 
anywhere  near  it  by  which  men  went  to  and  fro.  But  the 
farmer  came  very  seldom,  and  no  one  else  at  all,  except 
now  and  then  in  the  spring  some  children  to  the  wood. 

One  year  the  crop  was  reaped  as  usual,  and  borne  away 
in  carts,  but  with  great  trouble,  for  much  rain  had  fallen, 
and  the  ground  was  heavy;  the  cart  wheels  sank  into  it, 
and  the  labouring  horses  had  much  ado  to  pull  them  out, 
sinking  in  themselves  to  the  fetlocks. 

The  time  came  for  the  yearly  ploughing,  but  no  plough 
came.  The  winter  passed,  and  the  farmer  had  not  once 
been  up  to  look  at  the  field.  "This  is  unaccountable,"  it 
said.  "He  must  have  forgotten  me.  But  if  he  does  not 
come  soon  it  will  be  too  late  to  get  me  ready  for  the 
sowing.  My  weeds  are  sprouting  fast,  and  there  is  the 
moor,  which  has  to  be  taught  its  place  every  year,  threat- 

"  101 


102  pirriN 

ening  to  over-run  mc.  It  has  already  jumped  the  ditch, 
and  I  am  really  getting  very  uneasy." 

The  time  for  sowing  came  and  went  by,  and  the  field 
received  no  attention.  All  the  plants  that  it  had  hitherto 
kept  at  arm's  length  seized  upon  it.  The  heather  pushed 
into  it  from  the  upper  end,  the  gorse  took  hold,  in  a  damp 
corner  a  colony  of  weeds  established  itself,  nettles  and 
thistles  appeared,  apparently  from  nowhere,  and  behaved 
most  insolently,  as  if  all  that  had  hitherto  been  done 
for  the  field  had  been  done  for  their  especial  benefit ; 
and  there  was  soon  enough  grass  to  encourage  the  rabbits 
to  come  out  of  the  wood  and  feed  on  it ;  indeed,  one  en- 
terprising doe  even  took  steps  to  establish  a  stop. 

"I  am  ashamed  to  look  the  sun  in  the  face,"  said  the 
field.  "I  am  forsaken  by  men,  and  shall  soon  be  a  field 
no  longer." 

One  day  in  the  spring,  when  it  had  given  up  all  hope 
of  being  able  to  do  anything  to  preserve  its  self-respect 
as  a  field  for  that  37ear,  some  men  came  out  of  the  wood 
and  walked  along  its  lower  end.  A  little  time  after,  more 
men  came,  carrying  chains  and  curious-looking  instru- 
ments. 

"When  I  was  worth  looking  at,"  said  the  field,  "nobody 
came  from  one  week's  end  to  the  other.  Now  that  I  am 
not  fit  to  be  seen,  all  the  world  comes." 

It  tried  to  say  politely  to  the  men,  "I  am  quite  ashamed 
that  you  should  see  me  looking  like  this."  But  a  field 
can  only  speak  to  men  through  its  growing  crops,  and  of 
course  the  thistles  and  nettles  were  not  going  to  carry 
a  message  like  that.  They  were  quite  satisfied  with  them- 
selves, and  were  doing  their  best  to  prevent  the  field  speak- 
ing at  all. 


THE    ROAD   AND   THE    FIELD       103 

"I  do  not  remember  having  ever  seen  agricultural  im- 
plements of  that  sort,"  it  said  to  itself-  alluding  to  the 
instruments  with  which  the  men  were  busy;  "but  I  am 
glad  that  something  is  to  be  done  at  last." 

But  the  men  went  away  in  the  evening,  and  did  not 
come  back  again,  and  the  moor  said  grimly,  "I  shall  get 
you  after  all." 

The  next  thing  that  happened  was  that  still  another 
lot  of  men  came  to  cut  down  trees  in  the  wood  on  either 
side  of  the  field.  The  axe  rang  all  day  long,  and  there 
was  more  talk  and  more  company  than  the  field  had  ever 
known,  except  at  harvest  time.  But  it  could  take  no 
pleasure  in  it  because  of  its  unhappy  and  degraded 
state. 

One  day,  as  the  trees  were  falling,  the  farmer  rode  out 
of  the  wood  and  sat  on  his  cob,  looking  over  the  broad 
slope  of  the  field.  "That's  a  nice  mess,"  he  said.  "I 
shouldn't  have  let  it  begin  to  go  back  if  I  had  known 
what  was  going  to  happen.  But  I  shall  plough  it  deep 
when  the  time  comes,  and  give  it  a  good  dressing.  It  will 
be  better  than  ever  next  year." 

Then  he  turned  and  rode  off  again.  The  field  was 
jubilant,  and  all  the  weeds  and  usurping  plants  to  which 
it  had  given  unwilling  harborage  trembled  on  their  stalks. 

The  field,  relieved  that  something  was  going  to  be 
done  to  it  at  last,  could  now  look  at  what  was  going  on 
around  it  with  some  interest.  "It  is  the  woods'  harvest," 
it  said,  as  the  trees  fell,  one  after  the  other,  "and  it 
has  been  a  long  time  coming.  But  why  do  they  not  reap 
it  all?"  For  the  trees  were  only  being  felled  in  a  broad 
band  on  either  side. 

When  the  trees  were  cut  down,  and  trimmed  where  they 


104  PIPPIN 

lay,  the  woodmen  brought  carts,  and  with  great  labour 
carried  away  first  the  trunks  and  the  bigger  branches, 
then  the  grubbed  up  roots,  and  then  the  neatly  bound 
stacks  of  bark  and  brush-wood.  The  heavy  carts  passed 
to  and  fro  over  the  lower  end  of  the  field  between  the 
clearings,  and  their  wheels  made  deep  ruts,  and  often 
stuck  fast.  The  woodmen  swore  heartily  at  the  yielding 
ground,  and  the  held  was  indignant.  "I  was  made  to  bear 
crops,  and  not  carts,"  it  said.  "I  ought  not  to  be  used 
in  this  way." 

When  the  woodmen  had  gone  the  navvies  came,  with 
spades  and  picks  and  barrows.  They  dug  out  the  earth 
from  one  of  the  woodland  clearings,  and  piled  it  in  a 
bank  on  either  side.  The  field  watched  this  operation  with 
interest.  "Now  they  will  go  over  and  do  the  same  to  the 
other  clearing,"  it  said,  when  they  had  reached  its  own 
border;  but  they  came  right  on,  and  removed  the  top 
spits  of  its  own  good  earth. 

"I  suppose  they  know  what  they  are  doing,"  said  the 
field ;  "but  I  shall  never  be  able  to  grow  anything  on  my 
sub-soil." 

By  the  time  the  first  gang  of  navvies  had  carried  their 
wide  trench  into  the  further  part  of  the  wood,  another 
gang  had  reached  the  first  part,  and  were  filling  the  trench 
with  cartload  after  cartload  of  stones.  "Surely,"  said  the 
field,  "they  can't  be  going  to  put  them  on  to  me!  Why, 
I  couldn't  grow  a  blade." 

But  on  came  the  flow  of  stones,  and,  a  little  way  behind 
the  carts  and  the  shovels,  came  a  great  heavy  thing  on 
monstrous  wheels,  such  as  the  field  had  never  seen,  and 
snorted  up  and  down,  pressing  and  grinding  the  stones 
together  into  a  hard  flat  surface,  on  which  even  a  thistle 


THE    ROAD    AND    THE    FIELD       105 

could  have  gained  no  lodgment.     "Can  the  farmer  possibly 
know  of  this  outrage?"  enquired  the  field. 

The  farmer  rode  up,  just  as  the  stones  and  the  engine 
had  got  across  to  the  further  wood.  He  did  not  seem 
in  the  least  surprised  at  what  he  saw,  but  gave  orders  to 
the  man  who  had  come  with  him  to  have  a  ditch  dug,  and 
posts  and  rails  and  a  gate  put  up ;  and  also,  to  the  field's 
great  delight,  for  the  ploughing  to  be  done  at  once;  for 
some  months  had  passed  since  the  trees  were  felled,  and 
it  was  now  time  again  for  the  earth  to  be  prepared  for 
the  next  season's  crops. 

The  ploughmen  came,  and  up  and  down  the  long  fur- 
rows went  the  horses,  making  short  work  of  the  weeds 
and  the  gorse  and  the  heather,  the  nettles,  thistles,  reeds, 
and  grass,  which  had  taken  such  hold  that  they  must 
have  thought  themselves  established  for  life.  But  when 
the  ploughs  got  down  near  to  the  stones,  they  turned  and 
went  up  again. 

"And  no  wonder !"  said  the  field,  to  that  part  of  itself 
upon  which  the  stones  had  been  rolled.  "I  cast  you  off. 
You  are  no  longer  part  of  me." 

It  lay  in  its  new  dress  of  wet  ribbed  earth,  its  pride 
restored  to  it,  and  very  beggarly  in  comparison  looked  the 
hard  stones,  and  the  weed-grown  bank  beside  them. 

"You  can't  cast  me  off,"  said  a  mournful  voice.  "We 
are  not  divided  yet." 

The  field  quivered  with  surprise  in  every  clod;  for  a 
field  may  be  cut  into  two  by  a  hedge  or  a  fence,  or  even 
a  ditch,  and  when  the  division  has  been  made  there  are 
two  separate  fields,  and  each  speaks  with  its  own  voice. 
But  until  that  has  been  done  you  may  treat  different  parts 
of  a  field  in  different  ways  but  it  is  still  only  one  field. 


106  PIPPIN 

Now  this  field  know  that  well  enough,  and  knew  that 
it  had  no  right  to  disown  any  part  of  itself  because  it 
was  ashamed  of  it,  any  more  than  a  man  can  disown  his 
own  nose  because  it  is  not  ornamental  enough  to  please 
him. 

But  if  that  was  so,  whence  came  the  separate  voice? 

There  was  silence  for  a  time,  and  then  the  field  asked 
in  a  subdued  tone:  "Who's   that   speaking?'* 

"You  know  well  enough,"  replied  the  mournful  voice. 
"I  am  that  part  of  you  that  has  been  so  badly  treated." 

"That  is  not  possible,"  said  the  field.  "You  must  be 
something  quite  different,  or  you  couldn't  speak  at  all. 
I  don't  understand  it." 

"No  more  do  I,"  replied  the  voice;  "but  you  can  see 
for  yourself  that  there  is  no  division  between  us  yet,  so  I 
must  still  be  a  part  of  you ;  and  you  can't  cast  me  off." 

"I  shall  be  able  to,  very  soon,"  said  the  field,  "for  they 
have  staked  out  the  ditch  and  the  line  of  the  fence  already. 
Then  you  can  be  whatever  you  like,  but  you  won't  be  me. 
What  you  are  now  I  don't  know." 

The  voice  was  silent.     It  did  not  know  either,  as  yet. 

The  ditch  was  dug  and  a  post  and  rail  fence  of  split 
oak  was  put  up,  with  a  stout  five-barred  gate  in  the 
corner  by  the  wood. 

"Now  I  am  free  of  you,"  said  the  field,  "and  perhaps 
you  will  kindly  tell  me  what  you  are  and  why  you  spoke 
with  a  voice  of  your  own  before  you  were  cut  off." 

The  voice  was  mournful  no  longer.  "I  am  the  road," 
it  >aid  proudly.  "I  was  a  road  even  before  the  fence  was 
put  up,  although  I  did  not  know  it.  You  may  keep  your 
brown   ribbed  dress.     I   am   proud  now  of  my  hard  white 


one." 


THE    ROAD    AND    THE    FIELD       107 

"Which  you  will  wear  all  the  year  through,"  said  the 
field  sharply.  "In  the  spring  I  shall  change  mine  for  a 
green  one,  and  in  the  autumn  I  shall  wear  one  of  ruddy 
gold." 

This  was  true,  and  the  road  kept  silence,  for  it  was 
too  young  }Tet  to  know  its  own  value. 

"Fancy  priding  yourself  upon  being  made  of  nothing 
but  hard  stones !"  the  field  went  on,  pleased  with  the  ad- 
vantage it  had  gained.  "Not  a  single  thing  will  you  grow, 
and  you  know  well  enough,  however  you  may  choose  to 
disguise  it,  that  the  best  use  the  earth  can  be  put  to  is 
to  grow  beautiful  and  serviceable  things." 

This  was  also  true,  and  the  road  had  lost  that  power, 
and  did  not  know  yet  what  it  had  gained  instead.  It 
maintained  a  meek  silence,  so  that  the  field  grew  a  little 
ashamed  of  crowing  over  what  had,  after  all,  once  been 
part  of  itself,  and  turned  its  attention  to  the  business 
in  hand,  which  was  to  get  properly  weathered  in  prepara- 
tion for  the  spring  sowing. 

One  day  the  farmer  came  riding  along  the  new  road 
with  his  little  daughter.  He  got  off  his  cob  and  leant  over 
the  gate,  for  he  was  an  understanding  man  and  knew 
that  a  field-gate  cannot  feel  itself  part  of  its  surroundings 
until  a  man  has  leant  on  it. 

"What  a  beautiful  clean  field,  father!"  said  the  little 
girl ;  and  the  field  thrilled  with  pride. 

"It  was  dirty  enough  a  month  ago,"  said  the  farmer. 
"And  it  would  be  dirtier  still  now  if  the  new  road  hadn't 
come  just  alongside  of  it.  'Tis  a  good  bit  of  land,  but 
it  was  more  trouble  than  it  was  worth — so  far  away  from 
everything — and  I  was  for  letting  it  go  back  to  the  moor. 
The  road  has  saved  it." 


108  PIPPIN 

It  was  now  the  road's  turn  to  feel  proud,  but  also  a 
little  puzzled  ;  for  it  had  not  yet  conic  to  the  knowledge 
of  what  great  purposes  it  was  to  serve. 

The  farmer  and  his  little  daughter  trotted  off,  and 
there  was  silence  for  a  time.  Then  the  road  said:  "You 
heard  that,  I  suppose.  The  moor  was  to  have  been  let 
in  on  you ;  but  I  saved  you." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  of  such  nonsense,"  said 
the  field.  "All  I  know  is  that  nothing  will  grow  on  you, 
and  if  I  were  you  I  should  hold  my  tongue." 

The  road  made  no  reply.  It  still  had  enough  of  the 
nature  of  the  field  out  of  which  it  had  been  made  to  feel 
rather  ashamed  that  nothing  would  grow  on  it.  "I  will 
see  what  comes  of  it  all,"  it  said  to  itself ;  "and  then  the 
field  and  I  will  talk  again." 

The  silence  held  for  many  months,  during  which  the 
field  hugged  the  pride  of  its  growing  crop,  and  the  road 
learned  its  usefulness. 

Then,  one  summer  morning,  when  the  green  ears  of 
corn  with  which  the  field  was  filled  from  bound  to  bound 
were  just  beginning  to  turn  yellow,  the  pride  of  the  field 
broke  out  and  it  sang  a  pa>an  of  rejoicing.  This  song 
of  the  fruitful  earth  is  so  loud  that  even  men's  deaf  ears 
sometimes  hear  it.  Long  ago  it  was  written:  "The  val- 
leys stand  so  thick  with  corn  that  they  laugh  and  sing." 

Now  if  the  field  had  contented  itself  with  rejoicing  in 
its  fertility  there  would  have  been  nothing  to  answer. 
But,  led  away,  possibly,  by  the  intractable  spirit  it  had 
inherited  from  its  mother  the  moor,  when  it  had  finished 
itfl  song  it  went  on  to  jeer  at  the  road's  barrenness. 

"From  each  of  the  seeds  sown  in  me,"  it  said,  "springs 
a   straight    supple  lance,  and   at   the  head   of  each  is  a 


THE    ROAD   AND    THE    FIELD       109 

heavy  ear  of  rich  ripening  corn;  the  finest  fruit  the  earth 
can  bear.  You  will  never  grow  another  blade  of  corn  as 
long  as  you  live." 

But  the  road  had  been  waiting  for  this  for  months, 
and  now  replied  at  once,  in  a  ringing  confident  voice,  very 
different  from  that  with  which  it  had  last  addressed  the 
field. 

"Though  I  shall  never  grow  another  blade  of  corn," 
it  said,  "my  barrenness  is  as  useful  as  your  fertility. 
Without  me  nothing  could  be  spread  abroad  that  you 
grow  for  the  service  of  man;  without  me  you  could  not 
grow  anything  at  all." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that,"  said  the  field. 
"For  years  before  you  came  I  grew  crops,  though  not 
so  good  as  this  one.  You  know  that  well  enough,  for  you 
were  part  of  me." 

"You  were  allowed  to  grow  them,"  said  the  road,  "but 
it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  they  were  carried 
away.  So  much  so  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  my  coming 
you  would  have  grown  no  more.  You  would  now  have 
been  in  a  worse  state  than  you  were  last  year,  and  next 
year  you  would  have  been  swallowed  up  by  the  moor." 

The  field  knew  that  this  was  true,  and  its  myriad  ears 
of  corn  trembled. 

"You  say,"  went  on  the  road,  "that  you  have  never 
grown  so  good  a  crop  as  this.     Why?" 

"That  is  easily  answered,"  said  the  field.  "Because 
of  the  good  dressing  I  received." 

"And  who  brought  up  the  dressing?  I  did.  You  had 
none  for  years,  because  it  was  too  much  labour  to  get  it 
here.  And  who  brought  up  the  ploughs?  I  did,  before 
I  knew  what  I  had  been  made  for.     And  the  seed.     And 


110  PIPPIN 

when  the  harvest  comes  I  shall  bring  the  reapers  and  their 
carts:  and  I  shall  cany  away  the  sheaves.  It  is  quite 
true  that  I  bave  saved  you,  and  I  alone." 

"I  admit,"  said  the  field,  after  a  pause,  "that  you  have 
been  most  serviceable  to  me.  I  suppose  I  was  so  valua- 
ble that  the  farmer  had  you  constructed  for  that  pur- 
pose." 

"The  farmer  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it,"  said 
the  road.  "It  was  worth  while  to  cultivate  you  again, 
after  he  had  decided  to  let  you  go,  because  I  happened  to 
be  coming  this  way.  But  I  haven't  told  you  half  that  I 
do  yet. 

"When  I  have  taken  your  corn  to  the  farm  to  be 
threshed,  I  take  it  to  the  miller  to  be  ground  into  flour; 
and  the  flour  I  take  to  the  baker  to  be  made  into  bread; 
and  the  bread  I  take  to  the  homes  of  those  whom  it 
nourishes.  All  the  fruits  of  the  earth  I  and  my  brothers 
carry  here  and  there  where  alone  they  are  of  value;  and 
everything  else  besides  which  men  need  in  life.  For  there 
is  no  jealousy  in  the  brotherhood  of  roads,  and  all  of  us, 
old  and  new,  work  together.  And  men  themselves  we 
take  all  over  the  world,  on  their  business  and  their  pleas- 
ure. You  have  seen  that  for  yourself.  None  ever  came 
here  before,  but  now  many  people  pass  you  every  day. 

"The  end  of  the  matter  is  this,  that  without  movement 
human  life  cannot  subsist,  and  in  aiding  movement  the 
road  is  doing  a  great  work  of  which  it  has  a  right  to  be 
proud." 

"But  not  so  great  a  work  as  growing  corn,"  said  the 
field,  who  was  unwilling  to  be  convinced. 

The  road  made  no  further  answer.  It  was  market  day 
and  it  had  a  great  deal  of  work  before  it. 


CHAPTER  X 

PIPPIN  WALKS   ON  AND    MEETS   MANY  KINDS  OF  PEOPLE 

So  passed  the  first  two  days  of  Pippin's  adventure,  and 
at  the  end  of  them  his  old  life  seemed  very  far  behind  him. 

On  the  third  morning  he  arose  very  early,  as  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  that  he  always  would  do  as  long  as 
he  was  on  the  road,  so  as  to  miss  nothing  of  the  glory 
and  freshness  of  each  new  day.  Once  more  he  had  shared 
a  room  with  the  pedlar,  with  whom  he  had  been  enter- 
tained at  the  house  of  a  rich  farmer  for  the  night.  They 
had  supped  in  a  great  kitchen,  had  sat  by  the  fire  after- 
wards, told  stories  and  sung  songs,  and  talked  of  the 
pleasures  of  life  and  its  hardships ;  and  it  was  to  be  re- 
marked that  the  farmer,  who  had  grown  fat  upon  the 
raising  and  selling  of  the  necessaries  of  life,  had  dwelt 
chiefly  on  the  hardships,  and  the  pedlar,  who  had  very 
few  of  the  world's  goods,  chiefly  on  the  pleasures. 

This  good  man  was  sleeping  peacefully,  and  Pippin 
dressed  very  quietly  so  as  not  to  awaken  him.  His  thin 
grey  hair  was  on  the  pillow,  his  old  face  was  calm  and 
patient  as  he  breathed  softly  like  a  little  child,  and  Pip- 
pin, glancing  at  him  every  now  and  then,  understood  a 
little  of  the  peace  of  mind  that  might  come  to  a  man 
who  had  gone  through  sorrow,  and  had  won  much  because 
he  had  asked  little  of  life. 

But  it  was  only  a  very  little  that  he  understood,  after 

all ;  for  in  his  eager  youth  he  looked  upon  all  the  good 

things  of  the  world  as  if  they  were  held  in  a  deep  chest 

111 


112  PIPPIN 

into  which  lie  might  dive  without  ever  reaching  the  bot- 
tom; and  although  he  thought  it  an  admirable  thing  thai 
an  elderly  man  who  had  fetched  out  few  prizes  should 
make  the  best  of  his  poor  fortune,  he  took  it  for  granted 
that  his  own  drawing  would  yield  much  richer  results. 

The  air  was  keen  and  damp  as  he  let  himself  out  of 
the  still  sleeping  house,  and  made  his  way  along  the  farm 
lane,  across  fields,  through  gates,  and  between  hedges 
until  he  came  out  upon  the  road  again,  and  went  forward. 
Something  of  the  excitement  with  which  he  had  stepped 
into  a  new  world  two  mornings  before  had  worn  off,  and 
for  that  day  at  least,  walking  through  the  rain,  which 
presently  set  in  for  a  steady  downpour,  he  did  not  re- 
capture it. 

The  rain  damped  his  spirit  of  adventure  and  threw  him 
back  upon  his  thoughts,  which,  as  he  tramped  the  wet  road 
for  mile  after  mile,  were  more  reflective  than  eager.  "I 
am  no  better  off  at  the  moment,"  he  said  to  himself,  "than 
if  I  were  at  home.  But  I  suppose  any  life  you  take  up  has 
its  dull  moments,  and  you  must  put  up  with  them,  and  look 
forward  to  the  bright  ones." 

But  do  what  he  would  to  whip  up  his  flagging  spirits 
he  could  not  encourage  himself  to  any  enjoyment  of  that 
wet  plodding  day,  and  only  towards  evening,  when  the 
rain  ceased  and  the  sun  shone  out  from  below  the  clouds, 
did  he  console  himself  with  the  thought  that  he  had  many 
hours  steady  journeying  behind  him,  and  that  there  was 
something  in  having  done  what  you  set  out  to  do,  whether 
you  enjoyed  the  doing  of  it  or  not. 

lie  spent  the  night  in  a  country  inn,  eating  his  supjx  r 
in  bed,  because  his  clothes  were  wet  through  and  had  to 
be  dried,  and  falling  asleep  directly  he  had  done  so. 


PIPPIN   MEETS    MANY   PEOPLE     113 

That  day,  in  looking  back  afterwards  on  his  journey, 
stood  to  him  for  the  first  in  which  he  had  really  done  any- 
thing, although  he  had  scarcely  spoken  to  a  soul,  and 
had  walked  through  a  flat  and  uninteresting  country. 
And  the  reason  for  that  those  who  are  older  and  wiser 
than  he  was  will  readily  understand.  Man's  heritage  is 
work,  which  brings  its  own  reward,  and  a  more  lasting  one 
when  it  is  pursued  under  difficulties. 

The  next  day  was  fine  and  he  went  on  again,  and  so 
for  some  days  further,  during  which  he  made  many  dif- 
ferent kinds  of  acquaintances  and  saw  many  different 
kinds  of  places.  Of  the  people  he  met  and  talked  with  on 
the  road,  the  professional  tramps  were  the  most  common, 
and  he  grew  to  be  rather  tired  of  their  company.  At  first 
he  talked  to  all  who  were  going  the  same  way  as  himself, 
for  he  had  heard  a  story  that  had  interested  him  from 
one  of  their  fraternity,  and  looked  to  hear  many  more. 

But  he  did  not  again  meet  a  man  who  had  fallen  from 
rich  estate  to  the  life  of  the  road,  although  he  met  two 
who  claimed  to  have  done  so — very  palpable  liars.  And 
their  stories  were  all  much  the  same.  They  were  shiftless, 
idle  vagabonds,  men  and  women  alike,  shirkers,  dishonest, 
greedy,  and  difficult  to  shake  off  by  a  man  who  had  a  good 
suit  of  clothes  on  his  back,  and  some  money  in  his  pockets. 
When  he  had  learnt  that  he  could  get  little  from  them, 
although  they  expected  to  get  a  good  deal  from  him,  he 
passed  them  by  with  his  strong  youthful  step,  and  if  they 
shambled  along  by  him,  whining  and  begging,  he  soon 
shook  them  off. 

He  went  a  little  way  with  an  honest  man  who  was 
really  on  the  lookout  for  work,  and  had  with  him  his  wife 
and  two  children,  and  all  his  worldly  goods  on  a  hand- 


114  pippin 

cart.  "I'm  strong,"  he  said,  "and  there's  nothing  against 
me,  except  her  and  the  little  ones,"  and  he  jerked  his  head 
at  his  thin,  poorly-clad  wife.  "I  shall  find  a  place  where 
a  good  pair  of  hands  is  wanted,  never  fear.  They  wasn't 
wanted  where  I  was  brought  up,  so  I  up  and  left." 

"It  was  a  poor  part  of  the  country,"  said  the  wife, 
"and  the  labouring  people  are  leaving  it." 

"It  was  machinery,  and  all,"  added  the  man,  sturdily 
pushing  his  cart.  "And  she  got  ill.  Folk  like  us  mustn't 
get  ill,  for  there's  no  money  to  get  well  with,  and  we 
mustn't  get  old,  or  we  can't  earn  none.  But  I'm  not  old 
yet,  and  we'll  settle  down  somewhere,  never  fear,  and  get 
a  bit  of  a  home  round  us  again.  That's  all  we  want,  and 
it  don't  seem  much,  do  it,  mister?" 

"Not  for  a  man  who  is  willing  to  work  for  it,"  said 
Pippin.      "It  seems  very  little." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  man  suddenly  changing  his  tone, 
"it  may  seem  little  enough  to  you,  but  it  seems  a  lot  to 
the  likes  of  us.  But  you'll  understand  I'm  not  asking  for 
pity,  nor  yet  for  money,  which  I'll  make  for  myself  if  I'm 
allowed  to  it." 

Here  the  smaller  of  the  little  children,  who  was  riding 
on  the  top  of  the  things  packed  with  the  cart,  began  to 
cry,  and  said  she  was  hungry.  The  man's  face  changed 
again,  and  wore  a  hunted,  almost  despairing  look.  He 
stopped  wheeling  the  cart  and  said  with  a  glance  at  Pip- 
pin: "When  this  gentleman  has  gone  on  we  will  stop  and 
have  our  little  bit  of  dinner.  It  isn't  enough  to  ask  him 
to  sit.  down  to  it  with  us." 

Pippin  was  going  on  after  this  rebuff,  but  the  woman 
threw  herself  on  the  little  child  and  clasped  it  to  her 
breast  and  cried  out,  as  she  rocked  it  to   and  fro,  "Oh, 


PIPPIN   MEETS   MANY   PEOPLE     115 

it  isn't  true.  All  our  money  is  gone  and  we  haven't  got  a 
crust  of  bread  to  give  them.  What  shall  we  do?  What 
shall  we  do?" 

"Stop  that  noise,"  shouted  the  man,  and  turning  to 
Pippin  he  said  roughly :  "We  didn't  ask  for  your  company 
and  we  don't  want  it.  You  get  on  your  way  and  leave  us 
alone." 

But  Pippin  stood  up  to  him.  "No,  I  shan't,"  he  said. 
"We  will  go  on  to  the  village,  there,  and  eat  our  dinner 
together." 

"I  don't  want  your  charity,"  said  the  man. 

"Your  children  are  hungry  through  no  fault  of  yours," 
said  Pippin.  "How  can  I  eat  my  own  dinner  in  comfort 
if  you  won't  share  it  with  me?" 

"Your  comfort  is  nothing  to  me.  I've  hard  enough 
work  in  looking  after  mine  and  theirs.  I  won't  take  your 
dinner." 

"Yes,  you  will,"  said  Pippin.  "Come  along  now." 
And  he  took  the  older  child,  who  had  been  crying  for 
company,  on  to  his  back,  and  soon  had  him  merry  again 
as  they  went  forward,  the  man  sulkily  pushing  his  cart 
and  the  woman  comforting  her  little  one. 

They  went  to  an  inn  Avhich  was  only  a  little  distance 
further  on  the  road  and  there  they  ate  a  good  dinner. 
"It  is  the  first  meal  we  have  eaten  so  far,  that  I  haven't 
earned,"  said  the  man  when  it  was  ready  for  them ;  but  his 
wife,  whose  pride  was  broken  by  her  child's  tears,  said, 
"When  we  set  out  from  home  we  knew  that  God  would  not 
let  us  starve.  If  He  chooses  to  send  us  our  food  by  this 
kind  young  man  let  us  take  it  and  be  thankful."  And  by 
the  time  the  meal  was  over  Pippin  had  her  and  the  chil- 
dren laughing,  and  her  husband  was  in  better  heart  to 


116  PIPPIN 

carry  on  the  struggle  for  the  work  which  should  enable 
him  to  give  them  what  was  necessary.  It  looked  too  as 
if  he  might  have  his  chance  without  travelling  further, 
for  the  innkeeper's  wife  was  taken  by  the  children,  and 
when  she  had  heard  their  story  said  that,  when  her  hus- 
band who  was  away  at  market  returned,  he  might  be  able 
to  find  the  man  something  to  do,  at  any  rate  for  a  time; 
and  so  Pippin  left  them  there,  and  the  man  came  out  with 
him  and  thanked  him  for  what  he  had  done  and  said  he  had 
not  meant  anything  by  his  roughness. 

"It  churns  a  man  up,"  he  said,  "to  see  his  children 
crying  for  bread,  and  he  doesn't  know  what  he  is  saying." 

At  another  time  Pippin  walked  a  mile  or  two  with  an 
artist,  who  was  old  enough  to  be  able  to  paint  very  pretty 
pictures  of  any  scene  that  took  his  fancy,  and  young 
enough  not  to  care  much  whether  he  sold  them  or  not. 
"It  is  the  life  I  like,"  he  said.  "I  come  out  every  spring 
and  go  about  the  country  whenever  I  please  till  the  winter 
sets  in  again.  I  can  make  enough  to  keep  me  going,  and 
that  is  all  I  care  for." 

Pippin  was  rather  glad  to  meet  somebody  who  took  the 
same  view  of  life  as  himself.  He  had  talked  mostly  with 
older  men,  those  in  the  places  where  he  had  eaten  or  slept 
showing  themselves  averse  to  the  pleasures  of  a  life  of 
movement,  clinging  to  the  idea  of  a  home  and  a  settled 
place  of  habitation,  and  willing  to  barter  even  their  free- 
dom for  the  sake  of  it;  and  those  whom  he  had  met  on  the 
road  quite  ready  to  retire  from  it  if  any  one  could  provide 
them  with  the  means  of  doing  so. 

"I  think  you  arc  quite  right,"  he  said.  "I  am  walk- 
ing for  my  pleasure  too,  and  I  wonder  that  more  people 
don't  do  the  same." 


PIPPIN    MEETS    MANY    PEOPLE     117 

"They  don't  do  the  same,"  said  the  young  artist  airily, 
"because  they  are  fools,  and  you  and  I  are  not.  They 
get  caught,  before  they  have  seen  anything  of  this  jolly 
world,  by  one  of  two  things,  money,  or  a  woman.  Both 
are  all  right  if  you  know  how  to  use  them,  but  if  you're 
not  precious  careful  they'll  have  you  by  the  heels  for  life 
before  you  know  you  are  caught." 

"How  does  money  do  that?"  asked  Pippin. 

"Well,  it  isn't  so  much  the  money,  as  the  buying.  If 
you  only  buy  as  much  as  you  want  for  the  moment,  or  can 
carry  with  you,  or  don't  mind  leaving  behind,  you  are 
money's  master,  and  you  can  make  a  little  of  it  go  a  long 
way.  But  directly  you  get  more  than  you  want  for  your 
needs,  and  begin  buying  things  with  it,  you  must  stay  in 
one  place  to  look  after  them." 

"Then  it  is  not  so  much  money  as  possessions." 

"You  have  caught  the  idea,  my  brave  boy.  Why 
should  anybody  want  to  possess  things  ?  If  he  goes  with- 
out them  he  possess  the  world.  If  he  clings  to  them  he 
loses  it.  Why  should  I  want  a  house  and  furniture? 
Every  inn  on  the  road  is  my  house.  I  love  pictures,  and 
every  picture  in  all  the  world  is  mine — to  look  at ;  and 
what  use  a  picture  is  except  to  look  at  I  don't  know. 
Books !  You  can't  read  more  than  one  at  a  time,  and 
that  you  can  carry  in  your  pocket,  and  buy  another  one 
when  you  have  finished  with  it.  In  fact  it  is  just  like  that 
with  everything.  However  many  things  a  man  wants  he 
only  wants  one  of  them  at  a  time,  and  you  can  get  the  use 
of  everything  by  paying  a  little  money  for  it,  and  a  good 
many  excellent  things  without  paying  anything — a  light 
heart  among  them,  and  that  is  what  no  amount  of  posses- 
sions will  bring  a  man."     And  here  the  young  artist  began 


118  piptin 

to  troll  out  a  song  to  show  that  he  was  beholden  to  no- 
body. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Pippin,  "you  said  there  were  two 
things  that  robbed  a  man  of  his  freedom.  What  about 
the  other?" 

"Eh?"  said  the  artist,  stopped  in  his  singing.  "Oh, 
a  woman !  Woman's  a  stay-at-home,  a  sleek-pawed  pussy- 
cat. She  wants  a  cushion  to  make  her  comfortable,  and 
when  you  have  given  her  a  cushion  you've  got  to  stick  by 
it.  Your  days  of  freedom  are  over.  A  kiss  and  a  joke, 
that's  the  way  to  treat  'em.  But  don't  let  them  get  their 
claws  in,  my  boy." 

"I  like  what  you  say  about  money  better  than  what  you 
say  about  women,"  said  Pippin.  "But  we  needn't  quarrel. 
I  want  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  any  more  than  you 
do." 

"Very  well,  then.  But  there  is  something  that  you  will 
find  you  do  want,  and  that  is  some  work  to  do.  You  can't 
paint,  I  suppose.      What  can  you  do?" 

Pippin  laughed.  "I  can't  paint,"  he  said,  "but  I  have 
done  a  good  deal  of  work — real  work.  I  tell  you  frankly 
I  am  rather  tired  of  it.  I  want  to  see  the  world  and 
enjoy  myself." 

"Ah !"  said  the  artist.  "Of  course,  you  are  very 
young." 

"If  it  comes  to  that,"  said  Pippin,  "I  don't  suppose 
I  am  much  younger  than  you." 

"Perhaps  not,  but  you  arc  much  more  foolish.  How- 
ever,  go  on  and  enjoy  yourself.  I  am  going  to  sit  down 
here  and  paint  a  picture." 

Tiny  hud  been  walking  along  a  road  which  ran  through 
a  noble  forest.      The  artist  had  always  had  his  eyes  about 


PIPPIN   MEETS   MANY   PEOPLE     119 

him,  even  when  he  was  talking,  and  now  had  suddenly 
found  just  the  picture  he  wanted  to  paint.  He  unstrap- 
ped his  sketching  apparatus,  whistling  all  the  while,  and, 
sitting  down  with  his  back  to  a  tree,  set  to  work  without 
any  delay. 

"I  shall  be  happy  here  for  the  next  few  hours,"  he 
said  to  Pippin.  "I  have  enjoyed  our  talk,  but  I  won't 
keep  you  from  }Tour  journey." 

So  Pippin  left  him,  wondering  a  little  exactly  what 
he  had  meant  by  calling  him  foolish,  and  not  understand- 
ing very  well.  "He  must  be  older  than  he  looks,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "It  is  the  middle  aged  and  elderly  men  who 
are  always  talking  about  their  work  and  pretending  to 
enjoy  it." 

He  met  other  people  on  the  road  and  in  the  places  where 
he  stayed  of  nights;  jovial  blades  of  bagmen  who  com- 
bined the  advantages  of  married  with  those  of  single  life ; 
travelling  musicians  whose  travelling  powers  were  more 
apparent  than  their  musical;  men  who  wanted  to  give 
him  a  new  religion  and  others  who  wanted  to  take  away 
what  he  already  had ;  quacks  and  sharpers,  and  all  the 
tribe  of  inventive  folk  who  made  their  living  out  of  the 
credulity  of  others  and  needed  a  roving  field  for  their 
operations ;  a  few  who  like  himself  were  bound  for  a  point 
and  preferred  to  travel  at  leisure  by  means  of  their  own 
legs,  or  had  no  money  to  pay  for  riding. 

He  saw  many  places  too,  and  many  different  kinds  of 
country.  The  downland  and  the  fertile  valley  and  the 
wooded  hills  he  had  passed  through  on  his  first  two  days' 
journey,  and  the  flat  agricultural  country  on  his  third. 
Then  he  had  tramped  for  a  day  along  the  coast,  crossed 
a  brown  rolling  moor,  walked  for  two  days  through  the 


120  PIPPIN 

forest  aisles,  and  after  that  had  kept  steadily  on  through 
towns  and  villages,  past  streams  and  fields  and  woods, 
up  hill  and  down  hill  and  along  the  level,  coming  always 
nearer  to  the  great  city  which,  however,  was  still  many 
days'  journey  ahead  of  him. 

He  did  not  walk  upon  a  Sunday,  but  took  the  rest  en- 
joined of  old  upon  man  and  beast  for  one  day  out  of  the 
seven;  and  his  Sundays  were  pleasant  days  to  him,  es- 
pecially the  second,  when  a  little  of  the  spring  of  his  ad- 
venture had  left  him  and  his  thoughts  homed  back  to  the 
settled  life  he  had  left  for  a  time. 

He  would  not  have  gone  back  to  it  yet.  It  was  very 
much  out  of  the  world  which  he  had  come  forth  to  see, 
and  its  monotony  had  irked  him.  But  as  he  awoke  to  a 
day  of  soft  spring  sunshine  and  lay  for  a  while  in  his  bed 
in  the  luxury  of  quiescence,  instead  of  rising  up  at  once 
to  take  the  road  as  on  other  days,  it  came  to  him  that 
there  had  been  times  when  he  had  been  very  happy,  and 
that  his  home  was  still  there,  unchanged,  though  he  was 
already  far  from  it  and  it  would  be  many  a  day  before 
he  saw  it  again. 

The  work-a-day  world  would  have  changed  its  aspect, 
there  as  here.  The  very  sounds  of  the  farm  would  be 
subdued,  as  if  beasts  as  well  as  men  knew  that  this  was 
a  day  of  rest.  The  birds  would  be  twittering  under  the 
eaves  outside  his  window,  through  which  would  be  coming 
the  fresh  scents  of  dawn.  By  and  by  the  chime  of  church 
bells  would  be  borne  on  the  wind  from  across  the  hill,  and 
later  in  the  morning  many  of  those  whom  he  had  known 
since  his  childhood  would  gather  in  the  church,  where 
ancient  stone  and  ancient  oak,  for  centuries  welded  into  a 
living  unity,  gave  forth  a  drowsy  scent,  the  memory  of 


PIPPIN   MEETS    MANY   PEOPLE     121 

which  would  move  him  all  his  life  long.  Alison  would  be 
there,  devout  and  collected,  but  after  church,  walking 
home  through  springing  cornfields,  she  would  be  bright 
and  gay.  Or  perhaps,  because  he  would  not  be  at  her  side, 
or  following  her  across  the  narrow  field-paths,  she  would 
not  be  very  gay. 

Dear  Alison!     Was  it  true  that  he  would  not  see  her 
for  another  year? 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    OLD    (   1.1  K(.  Y  MAX    AND    HIS    STORY 

It  was  a  beautiful  place,  this  in  which  Pippin  rested  on 
the  second  Sunday  of  his  journeyings.  Some  centuries 
before,  a  great  man,  saved  from  some  peri]  of  his  enemies, 
had  built  here  a  noble  abbey,  thinking  to  pay  his  debt 
in  that  way  to  the  Power  that  had  intervened  on  his  be- 
half, and  if  history  lies  not  had  left  it  to  those  who 
worked  and  prayed  here  for  some  centuries  more  to  purge 
his  errors  for  him,  while  he  applied  himself  to  increasing 
the  sum  of  those  errors,  until  he  came  to  this  place  to  die 
in  sanctity  and  make  a  final  end  of  them.  However  that 
may  have  been,  the  work  of  the  monks  had  been  well  done, 
both  in  making  productive  the  wide  lands  of  their  abbey 
and  in  the  still  more  important  matter  of  tilling  the  hard 
soil  of  their  hearts.  And  they  had  shown  hospitality  to 
wayfarers,  and  provided  refuge  for  many  who  in  those  un- 
settled times  were  in  trouble,  whether  from  some  fault  of 
their  own  or  from  the  persecution  of  strong  and  evil  men. 
But  there  had  come  a  time  when  this  and  other  religious 
houses  had  been  given  over  to  the  spoilers,  and  now  there 
was  little  enough  left  of  all  the  glories  of  building  that  had 
once  shone  like  a  jewel  in  this  fair  spot;  only  a  little 
chapel  in  place  of  the  great  abbey  church,  of  which  there 
was  scarcely  a  stone  remaining,  a  noble  barn  of  stone  and 
timber,  still  put  to  its  original  use  of  husbandry,  and  a 
cloistered  garth,  in  which  flowers  and  herbs  took  the  place 
of  the  human  activity  that  had  once  filled  it  from  dawn  to 
dusk. 

122 


CLERGYMAN   AND   HIS    STORY      123 

One  of  the  abbey  buildings  abutting  on  this  quiet  en- 
closed garden  had  been  adapted  to  the  uses  of  a  modest 
dwelling,  in  which  lived  the  old  clergyman  who  served  the 
handful  of  parishioners  left  over  from  the  thriving  com- 
munity dispossessed  and  scattered  so  long  ago.  Hard  by 
was  the  entrance  to  the  little  church,  and  after  the  morn- 
ing service  had  been  said  and  sung  it  was  the  custom  of 
some  of  the  congregation  to  walk  for  a  time  in  the  old 
man's  garden,  of  which  he  was  very  proud.  Pippin  joined 
them,  and  the  old  clergyman  greeted  him  cordially,  en- 
quired of  him  whence  he  had  come  and  whither  he  was  go- 
ing, and  presently  asked  him  to  share  a  meal  with  him. 
Pippin  would  have  preferred  to  dine  at  his  inn,  for  al- 
though he  had  learned  courtesy  towards  those  far  on  in 
life,  for  which  reason  he  was  generally  much  liked  by  them, 
it  was  some  effort  to  adapt  himself  to  a  suitable  deference, 
and  he  had  a  suspicion  that  this  kindly  old  man,  with  the 
quick  searching  eyes  which  had  taken  him  all  in  while  he 
was  asking  his  questions,  Avas  partly  moved  to  his  hos- 
pitality by  the  desire  for  a  new  pair  of  ears,  into  which 
to  pour  the  speech  that  came  so  readily  to  him. 

And  so  it  proved  to  be.  The  old  clergyman  was  a  man 
with  a  hobby,  and  few  chances  of  riding  it  in  this  remote 
spot,  where  the  work  of  the  hands  was  more  considered 
than  the  work  of  the  brain.  During  the  many  }^ears  of 
his  quiet  pastorate,  as  successor  to  the  men  of  old  who  had 
followed  the  same  way  as  himself,  though  in  different 
fashion,  he  had  searched  into  books  and  conferred  with 
learned  men,  so  that  he  might  re-create  in  his  mind  the  life 
that  had  been  lived  by  his  predecessors.  He  was  a  very 
mine  of  lore  upon  the  conventual  life  of  a  past  age,  and 
lost  no  time  in  imparting  some  of  it  to  his  guest,  who  fol- 


124  PIPPIN 

lowed  him  about  among  the  ruined  stones  and  arches,  and 
learned  many  things  about  them  which  interested  him, 
though  he  could  not  forbear  wondering  what  kind  of  re- 
freshment would  presently  come  as  a  reward  of  his  pa- 
tience and   the  exercise  of  his  brain. 

For  his  mentor  was  not  satisfied  to  pour  out  the  in- 
formation of  which  he  was  so  full  to  ears  merely  receptive. 
He  must  be  asking  questions.  "Now  what  do  you  think 
this  was?"  Pippin,  looking  doubtfully  at  the  broken  re- 
mains of  what  seemed  to  have  been  a  line  of  stone  basins, 
suggested  a  washing-place,  and  found  that  he  was  right. 
"It  was  the  lavatorium,"  said  the  antiquary,  commending 
him  for  his  intelligence,  "and  here  you  see  the  conduit 
that  brought  the  water."  And  he  told  him  much  about 
the  cleanly  habits  of  the  monks  in  an  age  long  before 
cleanliness  was  practised  by  the  world  at  large.  In  the 
course  of  his  years  of  study  he  had  formed  an  idea  of  the 
virtues  of  monastic  life  somewhat  in  excess  of  those  with 
which  it  has  commonly  been  credited,  and  Pippin  soon 
came  to  understand  that  he  lived  as  much  of  his  life  as 
was  convenient  in  conformity  with  the  habits  of  the  past, 
and  gained  a  simple  pleasure  in  so  doing. 

The  parlour  in  which  their  meal  was  spread  was  very 
simply  furnished  with  a  table  of  solid  and  ancient  oak  and 
two  benches  to  match  it,  another  table  for  writing,  and  a 
few  chairs  without  cushions  or  any  upholstery.  The  floor 
was  of  stone,  and  there  were  no  rugs  upon  it,  nor  any 
curtains  at  the  latticed  windows.  The  walls  were  partly 
lined  with  books,  and  for  the  rest  were  whitewashed.  An 
ivory  Christ  upon  a  large  ebony  cross  hung  above  the 
open  hearth,  and  there  were  some  framed  prints  of  sacred 
subjects  elsewhere.     On  the  long  broad  sill  beneath  the 


CLERGYMAN   AND    HIS    STORY      125 

window  there  was  a  row  of  pots,  in  which  the  sweet-scented 
flowers  of  early  spring  were  blooming ;  and  further  bright- 
ness was  given  to  the  bare  but  sunny  room  by  a  canary  in 
a  wicker  cage,  for  which  the  old  man  apologized,  but  said 
that  the  monks,  who  were  very  human,  would  not  have 
quarrelled  with  his  liking  for  the  song  of  this  foreign  bird. 

The  meal  was  served  by  an  elderly  woman  with  a  kind 
and  pleasant  face,  who  smiled  at  Pippin  and  told  him  that 
he  should  not  suffer  from  her  master's  preference  for 
Lenten  fare.  Presently  he  had  before  him  a  plate  laden 
with  good  things,  which  was  probably  part  of  her  own  re- 
past, while  the  old  clergyman  regaled  himself  more 
frugally,  still  talking  the  while. 

"As  you  are  probably  aware,"  he  said  presently,  "the 
monks  ate  their  meals  in  silence,  except  for  one  who  read 
to  them  out  of  a  book.  You  have  shown  yourself  so  inter- 
ested in  all  that  I  have  told  you  about  the  life  of  those 
good  men  that  perhaps  you  would  like  me  to  read  to  you 
one  of  the  little  stories  that  I  amuse  myself  by  writing 
about  them." 

Pippin  said  that  he  would  like  this,  and  meant  it,  for  he 
had  still  much  to  get  through  of  what  had  been  set  before 
him,  while  his  host  had  already  finished  eating.  The  old 
man  searched  among  his  papers,  and  brought  one  back  to 
the  table  with  him.  "This  is  a  little  story  suitable  to  this 
time  of  year,"  he  said,  and  began  to  read  in  a  deliberate 
and  not  unmusical  voice  his  story  of 

Brother  Paul 

At  the  first  stroke  of  the  bell  Brother  Paul  hastened  to 
join  the  group  of  monks  in  the  cloister.      He  received  his 


126  PIPPIN 

spade  and  mattock,  and  took  his  due  place  in  the  line. 
"Let  us  go  to  our  manual  labour,"  said  the  prior  at  the 
door,  and  two  by  two  the  monks  filed  out,  their  imple- 
ments on  their  shoulders. 

It  was  the  season  of  Lent.  They  went  through  the 
garden,  where  among  the  potherbs  a  few  early  flowers 
wire  showing.  They  passed  the  infirmary,  where  the  sick 
were  lying  in  silence,  and  the  fish  ponds,  from  which  they 
were  now  chiefly  fed.  Up  the  valley  they  went,  singing 
the  Miserere,  a  procession  of  white  figures  on  the  green 
slope,  and  came  to  the  vineyard,  in  which  their  day's  work 
was  to  be  done. 

It  was  the  hour  of  noon.  They  had  said  Matins, 
Lauds,  and  Prime,  and  heard  Mass  in  the  great  church; 
they  had  attended  the  daily  Chapter;  they  had  dined  off 
fish  and  lentils.  The  sun  was  warm,  but  there  was  a  keen 
east  wind,  which  nipped  toes  and  fingers,  and  made  it  dif- 
ficult to  keep  on  their  thick  white  hoods  of  cloth.  The 
light  Lenten  fare,  and  the  hours  they  had  spent  in  the 
unwarmed  church  and  cloister  and  refectory,  made  them 
susceptible  to  the  cold.  Brother  Paul  shivered  under  the 
folds  of  his  cape,  though  he  was  young  and  the  blood  ran 
lustily  in  his  veins. 

The  vines  had  been  planted  on  a  terraced  slope  facing 
South.  A  thick  wood  of  oak  and  beech  sheltered  it  from 
the  North  and  East.  The  bare  poles  stood  in  serried 
ranks,  still  closely  bound  with  their  winter  protection 
of  bracken. 

The  prior  said  a  paternoster  and  a  versicle.  The 
monks  standing  round  him  replied,  and  then,  girding  up 
their  tunics  to  the  knee  and  throwing  back  their  hoods, 
fell  each  to  his  task. 


CLERGYMAN    AND    HIS    STORY      127 

Brother  Paul  fell  to  his  very  heartily.  He  worked  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  vineyard,  where  it  was  most  sheltered. 
Very  soon  his  body  was  in  a  glow,  and  his  mind  lifted.  He 
had  been  told  that  when  he  worked  in  the  vineyard  he  must 
think  of  the  True  Vine  by  which  the  souls  of  the  faith- 
ful were  nourished  and  kept  alive.  To  his  simple  peas- 
ant's understanding  this  meant  that  the  work  he  was 
doing  was  for  his  especial  welfare,  both  in  this  world  and 
the  next.  He  was  helping  the  Vine  to  grow,  and  he  could 
tell  by  the  pleasure  he  felt  in  his  task  that  it  must  be  good 
work. 

He  felt  the  same  when  he  went  out  with  the  others  to 
the  tidal  rivers  on  which  the  abbey  was  built  and  netted 
the  fish ;  when  the  torches  shone  on  the  black  water,  and 
with  much  commotion  the  nets  were  dragged  up  on  to  the 
grass  and  the  red  and  silver  fish  drawn  from  them  and 
sorted  into  baskets.  So  the  Saviour  of  the  World  had 
once  watched  his  friends  take  the  fish  from  their  nets. 

It  was  good  to  be  professed,  and  to  do  work  like  this. 
Outside  the  abbey  walls  the  world  was  cruel  and  quarrel- 
some. Men  destroyed  one  another's  bodies  instead  of  sav- 
ing their  own  souls ;  they  oppressed  the  poor  instead  of 
feeding  them.     They  were  steeped  in  wickedness. 

Brother  Paul  stood  up  and  straightened  his  broad  back. 
The  sun  was  strong,  and  there  was  no  wind  in  this 
sheltered  corner.  He  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow. 
Before  him  the  trees  were  covered  with  a  veil  of  brown 
and  purple,  a  holly  glistened  in  the  sun,  and  a  thorn 
showed  fresh  and  delicate  green.  Two  blackbirds  flirted 
out  from  the  undergrowth  and  back  again,  and  in  the 
wood  the  thrushes  were  singing.  At  its  edge  the  prim- 
roses clustered  thickly. 


128  PIPPIX 

The  voice  of  spring  which  speaks  clearly  just  once  a 
year  to  those  who  live  close  to  nature  rang  in  his  ears. 
It  had  been  late  in  coming  this  year,  stifled  by  the  frosts 
and  the  bitter  winds;  but  now  there  was  no  doubt  about  it. 
Winter  was  over  and  past;  Easter  was  coming,  and  the 
flowers,  and  the  long  fair  days.  Brother  Paul  laughed 
aloud  for  pleasure. 

Brother  Paul  laughed  in  the  sunshine,  and  Brother 
John  working  near  him  looked  up  and  scowled,  with 
straight  thin  brows  on  a  lean  face,  and  then  went  on  with 
the  work   he  hated. 

Brother  Paul  also  went  on,  with  the  work  he  loved.  He 
did  not  want  to  laugh  again.  A  shadow  seemed  to  have 
passed  over  the  sun.  He  had  done  a  dreadful  thing.  He 
had  forgotten  that  it  was  Lent,  and  he  had  laughed  for 
pleasure. 

Easter,  suddenly,  seemed  a  long  way  off.  He  had  many 
sins  to  mourn  and  many  temptations  to  fight.  He  must 
confess  this  new  grave  fault — unless  Brother  John  saved 
him  the  trouble — and  undergo  penance.  If  that  only 
meant  being  beaten,  kneeling  on  the  floor  of  the  chapter 
house  in  the  presence  of  the  community,  he  would  take  his 
punishment  gratefully,  and  not  offend  again.  If  it  meant 
kneeling  for  hours  in  the  church,  he  knew  it  would  go  hard 
with  him. 

He  loved  the  church,  when  he  had  something  definite  to 
do  in  it.  He  loved  to  sing  in  the  choir  and  take  his  part 
in  the  offices,  and  it  was  a  joy  to  him  when  his  turn  came 
to  serve  with  incense  or  lights.  But  to  be  left  to  silence 
and  his  own  thoughts — that  was  the  time  when  the  devil 
pressed  him  very  hard. 

He    knew    very    well    what    would    happen.      The    devil 


CLERGYMAN   AND    HIS    STORY      129 

would  brush  away  all  the  good  thoughts  he  was  trying 
hard  to  think,  and  would  force  on  his  mind  guilty  pic- 
tures. He  would  see  himself  riding  out  into  the  morning 
with  a  troop  of  gay  companions,  ready  to  give  and  take 
blows  and  glory  in  doing  so.  He  would  sniff  the  good 
scent  of  the  birds  roasting  before  the  tavern  fire,  and  the 
warm  red  wine,  and  hear  the  laughter  and  the  loose  merry 
talk.  And,  worse  than  all,  the  fair  face  of  the  reeve's 
daughter  under  its  blue  snood  would  rise  up  to  taunt  him, 
a  very  potent  trial  indeed ;  for  the  devil  could  almost  make 
him  believe  that  the  love  of  a  woman,  if  purged  of  gross- 
ness,  was  a  good  thing  for  a  man,  and  even  for  a  monk. 
Oh,  there  was  no  end  to  his  wiles ! 

The  monks  finished  their  labours  and  went  back  to  the 
abbey.  The  evening  sun  shone  brightly  and  the  birds 
sang  more  loudly  than  ever;  but  Brother  Paul  had  lost 
the  sense  of  spring.  It  was  Lent,  and  he  had  forgotten 
it  and  laughed. 

The  Lord  Abbot  sat  in  his  high  seat  in  the  chapter- 
room.  His  feet  were  cased  in  boots  of  thick  felt,  and 
his  clothes  were  lined  with  fur;  but  tremors  ran  con- 
tinually through  his  bloodless  frame,  for  he  was  very  old. 

The  Martyrology  was  read,  the  short  office  recited,  and 
the  novices  retired. 

Then  arose  Brother  John  and  denounced  Brother  Paul 
for  breaking  silence  and  disturbing  his  own  pious  re- 
flections with  a  godless  laugh.  He  laid  more  stress  upon 
his  own  pious  reflections  than  was  quite  necessary,  and 
was  stopped  by  the  Superior. 

Brother  Paul,  downcast  and  distressed,  did  not  deny  the 
fault,  and  if  excuses  had  been  allowed  would  have  had  none 


130  r  I  P  P  I N 

to  offer.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing  further  to  do  but 
to  pronounce  sentence. 

But  the  Lord  Abbot,  shivering  with  cold,  looked  at  him 
keenly  for  a  space  and  then  asked  him  why  he  had  laughed. 

It  was  the  sun  and  the  birds,  stammered  Brother  Paul; 
and  he  was  tending  the  True  Vine. 

The  Abbot  asked  the  Prior  whether  Brother  PauPs 
work  in  the  vineyard  had  been  well  done — and  Brother 
John's.  The  Prior  said  that  Brother  Paul  had  worked 
prodigiously,  but  Brother  John's  task  had  been  much 
interfered  with  by  his  pious  meditations. 

Then  the  Abbot  spoke.  He  said  that  Lent  was  the  sea- 
son for  mortification,  but  inasmuch  as  God  made  the  earth 
to  laugh  in  the  spring-time,  whether  Easter,  the  season  of 
gladness,  came  late  or  early,  it  was  pleasing  to  Him  that 
mankind  should  take  pleasure  in  His  bounties,  and  in  the 
work  that  had  been  assigned  to  our  father  Adam  for  his 
consolation.  Brother  Paul  must  kneel  on  the  floor  and 
receive  three  strokes  for  breaking  the  rule  of  silence  and 
for  laughing  aloud  when  he  ought  to  have  laughed  in- 
wardly. And  Brother  John  must  receive  twelve  strokes 
for  vainglory,  and  twelve  more  because  he  had  neglected 
the  work  by  which  he  should  have  been  praising  God. 

Brother  Paul  did  his  penance,  and  presently  went  out 
with  a  glad  heart  to  uncover  the  vines  and  let  the  sun  play 
upon  their  opening  buds. 

The  reading  of  this  little  story  inclined  Pippin  still 
more  towards  the  old  clergyman,  for  it  showed  him  not  to 
have  forgotten  the  urgings  of  youth;  and  in  spite  of  his 
[inoccupations  with  a  bygone  rule  of  life  it  was  plain  that 
he  valued  highest  the  spirit  that  lay  behind  it.      Later  on, 


CLERGYMAN   AND   HIS    STORY      131 

when  he  had  taken  leave  of  him,  he  found  that  he  was 
much  beloved  by  the  people  whom  he  served  in  this  place. 
The  innkeeper  with  whom  he  gossiped  told  him  that  he 
was  a  man  of  some  wealth,  and  that  his  purse  was  always 
open  to  those  of  his  friends  who  needed  help,  though  for 
his  own  needs  it  was  that  of  a  niggard.  "He  will  buy 
books,"  he  said,  "and  he  will  spend  money  on  beautifying 
his  church ;  but  for  anything  to  do  with  his  own  comfort 
the  good  woman  who  looks  after  him  has  to  scheme  and 
contrive  to  extract  money  from  him.  I  doubt  whether 
many  of  those  old  monks  he  is  always  talking  about  were 
as  good  Christians  as  he  is.  There  was  a  deal  of  knavery 
mixed  up  with  their  religion,  or  it  would  not  have  been 
got  rid  of  and  a  better  put  in  its  place  throughout  the 
country." 

This  speech  seemed  to  show  that  the  old  clergyman  had 
not  succeeded  very  well  in  impressing  his  views  upon  the 
innkeeper,  although  he  had  fastened  upon  him  the  convic- 
tion of  his  own  single-minded  charity.  But  it  is  often  so 
with  those  who  would  bring  others  to  their  way  of  think- 
ing. Their  words  are  passed  by,  but  their  lives  are  re- 
garded. 


CHAPTER  XII 

PIPPIN    GOES    TO    THE    CIECUS    AND    HAS    A    PASSAGE 
WITH     A     LION-TAMER 

The  sunny  spell  of  spring  weather  had  changed  when 
Pippin  took  the  road  again  early  next  morning.  The 
sky  was  dull  and  a  keen  wind  was  blowing.  He  could  not 
but  confess  to  himself  that  he  was  getting  a  little  tired  of 
his  expedition.  He  was  seeing  the  world,  it  is  true,  but 
the  world  seemed  much  the  same  in  one  place  as  another. 
For  a  holiday,  his  present  life,  seeing  new  people  and  new 
places  every  day,  was  well  enough ;  but  when  a  man  goes 
holidaying  he  is  anchored  all  the  while  to  his  home,  and 
Pippin  had  left  his  home  for  a  year  at  least.  He  did 
not  want  to  go  back  to  it  yet  awhile,  but  he  had  expected 
rather  more  from  his  freedom  than  he  had  yet  gained. 
Youth  is  greedy  of  experience,  and  his  experiences,  though 
informative,  had  so  far  lacked  excitement.  He  wanted  to 
be  doing  something,  he  did  not  know  what,  and  his  chance 
came  when  he  tumbled  headlong  into  the  life  of  the  travel- 
ling circus. 

Pippin  first  came  upon  the  tracks  of  the  circus  when  he 
passed  through  a  town  from  which  another  main  road 
branched  off  towards  the  north.  It  was  along  this  road 
that  the  company,  with  its  horses  and  its  gilded  equipages, 
its  cages  of  lions  and  tigers,  and  its  mighty  elephant,  had 
come.  Highly  coloured  pictures  of  the  scenes  of  curious 
and  exciting  life  which  any  one  who  paid  the  money  might 

see  for  themselves  when  the  circus  had  set  up  its  tents 

132 


PIPPIN    GOES   TO   THE    CIRCUS      133 

were  posted  on  walls  and  buildings,  and  Pippin,  who  had 
never  seen  anything  of  the  kind,  was  moved  by  them. 

Neither  quality  nor  quantity  had  been  spared  in  these 
pictures.  There  was  one  of  a  fairy  of  extreme  youth  and 
ravishing  beauty  flying  through  rings  of  fire  and  rings  of 
roses  held  up  by  respectful  grooms  in  liveries  of  royal 
scarlet,  while  a  mettled  steed  with  flowing  mane  and  tail 
galloped  incontinently  forward  far  beneath  her.  There 
was  another,  of  a  very  handsome  youthful  man  in  a  suit  of 
green  and  gold  and  red,  standing  erect  in  the  midst  of  a 
pyramid  of  magnificent  lions,  entirely  unmoved  by  their 
fierce  appearance. 

But  the  pictures  which  pleased  Pippin  most  were  those 
illustrative  of  Dick  Turpin's  Famous  Ride  to  York.  In 
one  of  them  this  famous  highwayman  was  seen  at  night 
clearing  a  cart  full  of  vegetables  and  a  turnpike  gate  in 
one  leap  of  the  noble  beast  he  bestrode,  while  the  gate- 
keeper, with  a  lantern,  and  the  owner  of  the  cart  looked 
on  stricken  with  amazement,  and  a  posse  of  mounted  con- 
stables in  the  background  drew  together,  too  craven  to 
follow  him.  In  a  still  more  remarkable  picture,  a  com- 
pany of  high-born  men  and  ladies  attired  with  splendour, 
sat  at  dinner.  The  table  was  gay  with  flowers  and  fruit 
and  lights  and  silver.  Two  bewigged  and  beliveried  foot- 
men served  the  company,  or  would  have  done  so  had  they 
not  been  turned  aside  from  their  duties  by  the  appearance 
of  Dick  Turpin,  who,  for  some  reason,  had  found  it  neces- 
sary to  leap  the  table,  company  and  all.  He  was  depicted 
in  the  act  of  doing  so,  while  the  startled  guests  were  seen 
looking  up  at  him,  emotions  of  fear  and  astonishment 
upon  each  expressive  countenance. 

There  were  other  pictures,  of  animals,  performing  and 


134-  PITPIN 

otherwise,  knights  and  ladies  and  fair  children,  all  en- 
gaged in  bold  and  stirring  achievements,  and  as  Pippin 
saw  no  reason  to  disbelieve  the  evidence  of  the  pictures, 
he  looked  forward  very  much  to  seeing  all  these  wonders 
for  himself  when  he  should  catch  up  the  circus,  which  he 
learnt  was  a  day's  march  further  on  this  northern  road. 

He  found  them  encamped  in  a  field  in  the  outskirts  of 
a  small  town  which  he  reached  about  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  and  after  choosing  his  inn  and  eating  a  somewhat 
hurried  meal  he  set  out  to  see  the  show. 

The  tent  in  which  it  was  held  was  a  large  one,  although 
its  interior  arrangements  did  not  carry  out  the  impression 
of  oriental  luxury  which  the  posters  had  led  Pippin  to 
expect.  He  occupied  a  scat  on  a  narrow  board,  with  the 
grass  of  the  field  for  a  floor,  and  in  front  of  him  was  the 
barrier  which  ran  round  the  ring,  spread  smoothly  with 
tan.  The  gilded  balcony  containing  a  large  orchestra  in 
resplendent  uniforms  with  which  the  pictures  had  familiar- 
ized him  was  sketchily  represented  by  a  boarded  box  from 
which  five  men  with  braided  coats  presently  began  to  dis- 
course music  from  loud  and  brazen  instruments. 

But  neither  Pippin  nor  the  rest  of  the  spectators,  of 
whom  there  were  a  considerable  number,  had  come  to  listen 
to  music  or  to  grumble  about  the  seats  they  sat  on,  and 
when  the  entrance  into  the  arena  was  thrown  open  and  the 
ring-master,  attended  by  six  grooms  in  scarlet  coats,  buck- 
skin breeches  and  top  boots,  strode  in  cracking  a  long 
whip,  there  were  loud  cheers  from  the  assembly,  for  here 
was  something  that  the  posters  had  not  exaggerated,  ex- 
cept possibly  in  the  fit  and  cleanliness  of  the  attendants' 
liveries. 

The   ring-master,  a  tall  man  with   a  dark   moustache, 


PIPPIN   GOES    TO   THE    CIRCUS      135 

the  fit  of  whose  clothes  left  nothing  to  be  desired,  bowed 
graciously  to  the  plaudits  of  the  assembly  and  cracked 
his  long  whip.  Two  grooms  ran  to  the  entrance  and 
threw  open  the  gates,  and  there  ambled  in  a  white  horse 
with  long  and  beautifully  combed  mane  and  tail,  and  on 
his  back  a  sort  of  staging  covered  with  red  and  fringed 
with  yellow.  Encouraged  by  the  ring-master's  whip  the 
horse  cantered  gently  round  the  circle,  and  then  with  a 
bound  entered  a  youth  in  a  neat  suit  of  fleshings  decorated 
with  blue  velvet,  who  smiled  and  made  motions  of  affection 
towards  the  audience,  and  then  with  a  sudden  access  of 
determination  ran  towards  the  white  horse  and  leapt  on  to 
the  platform,  from  which  he  repeated  his  greetings  while 
he  was  carried  standing  round  the  ring. 

Gathering  courage  he  next  essayed  to  turn  a  somer- 
sault, but  lost  his  balance  as  he  returned  to  the  horse's 
back  and  slipped  off  on  to  the  sawdust,  was  up  again  im- 
mediately, ran  after  the  horse,  which  pursued  its  course 
unaffected  by  what  was  happening,  leapt  on  to  the  stag- 
ing, and  performed  his  intention  this  time  without  a  slip. 
Three  times  he  did  this  thing,  and  then  sat  negligently  on 
the  horse's  back,  graciously  acknowledging  the  applause 
of  the  spectators,  until  the  entrance  of  a  clown,  announced 
on  the  programme  as  "Little  Joey,"  withdrew  attention 
from  him  for  the  time  being. 

Everybody  laughed  at  the  clown,  he  was  so  innocent  and 
foolish.  The  ring-master  treated  him  with  lofty  courtesy, 
and  seemed  himself  to  be  amused  by  his  sallies,  although 
some  of  them  were  at  his  own  expense  and  transgressed 
the  usual  bounds  of  politeness.  Even  when  he  flicked 
him  with  his  whip  and  made  him  roll  on  the  ground  in 
vociferous  agony  it  was  done  without  passion,  and  in  the 


136  TIPPIN 

painful  scene  that  followed,  when  the  clown  borrowing  his 
whip  on  some  pretext  drove  him  protesting  round  the 
ring,  his  anger  was  of  short  duration,  and  he  was  his 
stately  self  once  more,  white  gloves  and  all,  when  closing 
the  episode,  he  signed  to  the  grooms  once  more  to  put 
the  white  horse  in  motion. 

The  youth,  whose  name  was  Signor  Franginelli,  after  a 
few  turns  of  the  ring  nerved  himself  to  his  crowning 
achievement.  The  band  broke  off  suddenly  in  the  middle 
of  a  bar,  there  was  a  hush  of  expectation,  broken  only  by 
the  padding  of  the  white  horse's  hoofs,  and  Signor  Fran- 
ginelli, gathering  all  his  forces  together,  turned  a  double 
somersault  on  the  moving  platform  where  before  he  had 
only  turned  single  ones. 

The  band  broke  out  again  louder  than  ever,  the  audi- 
ence clapped,  the  grooms  clapped,  even  the  ring-master 
clapped,  and  the  clown,  throwing  himself  down  on  his 
back,  clapped  with  his  feet  in  unmerited  derision.  The 
gates  were  thrown  open  and  the  white  horse  ambled  out 
of  the  arena,  leaving  Signor  Franginelli,  modest  and 
flushed,  motioning  gratitude  to  the  audience  until  such 
time  as  he  was  released,  and  bounded  out  of  the  ring  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  has  done  more  than  could  have  been 
expected  of  him. 

The  performance,  opened  so  auspiciously,  accumulated 
interest  as  it  went  along.  Little  Joey,  the  clown,  was 
here  there  and  everywhere,  getting  in  everybody's  way, 
imitating  with  ill  success  everybody's  feats,  and  respect- 
ing nobody's  feelings.  There  was  a  family  of  acrobaN. 
The  father  somewhat  stout  but  indomitably  active,  the 
mother  a  little  past  her  work  but  spared  from  too  great  a 
strain,   the  twTo  sons  and  three  daughters,  ranging  from 


PIPPIN    GOES    TO   THE    CIRCUS      137 

about  eighteen  years  of  age  to  seven,  models  of  lissom 
grace.  These  did  wonderful  things  on  a  horizonal  bar, 
and  on  each  other's  shoulders  and  heads.  There  was  a 
performing  elephant,  whose  intellect,  less  cumbrous  than 
its  body,  was  shown  by  the  way  it  emptied  a  bottle  said  to 
contain  wine  down  its  own  throat,  and  carried  out  other 
feats  of  a  like  nature.  The  ring-master  explained  to  the 
audience  that  the  rule  of  its  training  had  been  kindness. 
No  one  had  used  brutality  to  the  elephant,  and  no  one 
should  ever  do  so  as  long  as  he — the  ring-master,  not  the 
elephant — lived. 

The  Fairy  Firefly  in  her  Unrivalled  Equestrain  Feat 
performed  much  the  same  antics  on  the  back  of  a  piebald 
horse  as  Signor  Franginelli  had  done  on  a  white  one. 
She  was  a  rather  meagre  and  elderly  fairy,  and  her  flight 
through  rings  of  fire  was  not  so  thrilling  as  the  posters 
had  led  Pippin  to  expect.  The  grooms,  standing  on  the 
parapet,  lit  tissue  paper  stretched  upon  wire  hoops  and 
when  it  had  flared  up  and  subsided  she  hopped  through 
them  one  by  one,  a  hoop  of  smouldering  paper  and  a  hoop 
of  paper  roses  alternately. 

But,  if  she  was  something  of  a  disappointment,  the 
Countess  di  Rimini  on  her  coal  black  steed,  which  danced 
in  time  to  music,  the  music  meeting  him  as  it  were  half 
way,  and  really  did  jump  five  barred  gates  without  having 
them  let  down  for  him,  made  up  for  the  disappointment. 

Here  was  a  beautiful  and  mettlesome  woman  on  a  fine 
horse,  and  Pippin's  heart  beat  faster  as  he  watched  her. 
She  was  quite  young.  She  had  dark  eyes  fringed  by  long 
lashes,  a  straight  little  nose  with  delicately  cut  nostrils, 
a  rather  full  red  mouth,  and  a  firm  jutting  chin  to  which 
her  soft  cheeks  curved  exquisitely.     Her  hair  under  her 


138  PIPPIN 

high  silk  hat  was  dark  and  glossy.  Her  figure  was  slim 
and  supple,  and  her  neat  green  habit  fitted  it  to  perfec- 
tion. There  was  nothing  of  the  circus  about  her  appear- 
ance or  the  trappings  of  her  horse,  and  Pippin  wondered 
how  a  woman  of  noble  blood,  so  magnificently  dowered  by 
nature,  and  still  youthful,  should  have  come  down  to  earn- 
ing her  bread  by  circus  tricks.  He  thrilled  with  admira- 
tion of  her  and  the  high-bred  courage  with  which  she  put 
her  splendid  mount  through  his  paces.  The  coloured 
posters  which  had  done  so  much  more  than  justice  to  the 
charms  of  the  middle-aged  homely  Fairy  Firefly,  had 
failed  lamentably  in  conveying  the  charm  of  this  adorable 
Countess  di  Rimini.  He  watched  her  with  all  his  eyes 
and  applauded  so  vociferously  as  she  rode  her  horse  out 
of  the  ring  that  she  noticed  him  and  gave  him  a  little  bow 
and  smile,  which  covered  him  with  confusion,  but  caused 
him  a  delightful  sensation  of  fluttering  about  the  heart. 

He  came  down  to  earth  again  as  a  cage  of  lions  was 
drawn  into  the  ring  by  four  horses,  accompanied  by  Herr 
Otto  Schwenck,  the  lion-tamer,  whose  appearance  struck 
him  with  instant  aversion.  He  was  a  big  man  with  a 
brutal  truculent  face,  and  the  five  undersized  beasts 
cowering  in  the  great  cage,  and  following  him  with  their 
melancholy  puzzled  eyes,  looked  as  if  they  had  greater 
reason  to  be  afraid  of  his  behaviour  than  he  of  theirs. 

Standing  in  front  of  the  cage,  his  big  body  looking 
as  if  it  would  burst  the  tight  absurd  clothes  in  which  it 
■was  clad,  he  made  a  speech  in  a  deep  guttural  accent  in 
which  he  recounted  the  intrepid  manner  in  which  he  had 
captured  these  same  lions  in  the  African  desert.  "So;" 
he  ended,  "I  garry  my  life  in  my  bonds  when  I  enter  inside 
dot  gage.      Dey  are  not  like  de  lions  you  see  oders  blay 


PIPPIN    GOES    TO   THE    CIRCUS      139 

wid.     Dot  big  one  is  a  man-eater.     Bot  he  will  not  eat  me. 
So ;  you  will  see." 

He  opened  the  door  of  the  cage  and  slipped  quickly 
inside.  The  lions  withdrew  from  him  as  far  as  they  could, 
and  the  reputed  man-eater  seemed  as  anxious  to  efface 
himself  as  any  of  them.  But  with  a  tap  of  his  leaded 
whip  on  the  nose  of  one  and  the  side  of  another,  and  with 
menacing,  snapped  out  words  he  soon  had  them  opening 
their  horrid  jaws  and  growling  at  him,  while  they  slunk 
round  and  round  him  in  a  quick  furtive  trot,  faster  and 
faster  as  he  urged  them  on  with  voice  and  never  ceasing 
whip.  He  seemed  to  be  able  to  do  anything  with  them, 
and  their  anger,  as  they  were  forced  to  belie  their  wild 
natures,  and  cringe  and  contort  themselves  at  his  bidding, 
was  unmistakeable.  He  seemed  to  goad  them  to  show  it, 
and  cowed  as  they  were  it  was  difficult  to  look  on  at  what 
was  passing  without  a  feeling  of  apprehension.  The  man 
certainly  seemed  to  have  courage,  and,  when  he  stood  up- 
right in  the  middle  of  the  cage  Avith  the  five  beasts  posed 
about  him,  the  reputed  man-eater  yawning  prodigiously 
above  his  head,  something  of  his  gross  brutality  seemed  to 
drop  from  him,  and  something  of  the  empire  of  humanity 
over  the  wild  creatures  of  the  earth  to  be  typified. 

When  this  exhibition  was  over,  and  the  lions  had  slunk 
away  from  him,  snarling,  the  grooms  brought  him  a  table 
and  two  chairs  with  food  and  wine,  all  of  which  he  carried 
into  the  cage,  and  then  invited  any  member  of  the  audience 
to  eat  and  drink  with  him,  promising  them  immunity  from 
danger.  "Here  is  a  very  good  bif  shteg  bie,"  he  said,  "and 
a  bottle  of  wine.  You  will  be  able  all  your  lives  to  say 
you  have  eaten  and  drunken  in  a  den  of  lions.  So  ?  Who 
will  come  forward?" 


140  PIPPIN 

Now  there  had  been  sitting  by  Pippin's  side  during  the 
performance  a  youth  clad  in  a  smock  frock  and  leather 
gaiters,  who  hardly  looked  like  a  countryman,  but  as  if 
he  had  been  dressed  up  to  resemble  one.  He  had  a  great 
lolling  head  and  an  expression  of  innocent  stupidity.  He 
had  applauded  vociferously  everything  that  had  taken 
place,  but  when  Pippin  had  said  something  to  him  about 
the  performance — it  was  during  the  turn  of  the  Countess 
di  llimini — he  had  looked  at  him  in  a  frightened  foolish 
sort  of  way  and  answered  in  words  which  sounded  like 
"Bogle,  google."  Pippin  had  set  him  down  as  what  vil- 
lagers call  a  natural,  and  had  not  pursued  the  conver- 
sation. But  when  the  time  had  approached  for  the  per- 
formance of  the  lions  he  had  turned  his  attention  to  him 
again,  for  he  was  noisily  applauding  no  longer,  but  sat 
muttering  to  himself,  and  was  evidently  in  some  distress. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Pippin. 

The  poor  creature  turned  on  him  a  face  of  tearful 
terror,  and  babbled  some  meaningless  sounds,  which  again 
seemed  to  be  "Bogle,  google,"  and  when  the  lions'  cage 
was  drawn  in  by  the  four  horses  his  body  shivered ;  and 
as  the  performance  proceeded  he  sat  as  if  chained  to  his 
scat  by  fright,  moaning  every  now  and  then  his  senseless 
cry. 

"The  lions  won't  hurt  you,"  said  Pippin,  "and  they 
will  soon  take  them  away."  But  his  terror  did  not  seem 
to  decrease. 

What  then  was  Pippin's  surprise  when  this  afflicted  and 
terrified  creature  rose  in  his  seat  at  the  lion-tamer's 
invitation,  and  prepared  to  go  into  the  ring.  He  was 
blubbering  with  emotion,  and  his  poor  ugly  face  was  pain- 
fully contorted.      Pippin  laid  a  hand  on  him  to  hold  him 


PIPPIN    GOES    TO    THE    CIRCUS      141 

back,  but  the  lion-tamer  caught  sight  of  him  at  that  mom- 
ent, and  said  with  a  raised  voice:  "So !  dere's  a  bright  look- 
ing lad  who  wants  a  good  tuck-oud.  Gome  along,  plough- 
boy,  you'd  make  a  fine  fat  meal  for  de  lions,  bot  dey  shan't 
douch  you,  and  you  shall  have  de  meal  inshtead." 

There  was  a  laugh  at  this,  but  the  audience  was  rather 
puzzled.  The  moon-faced  youth  in  his  countryman's  garb 
was  unknown  to  any  of  them,  and  his  distress  was  evident. 
Yet  there  he  was,  preparing  to  undergo  the  ordeal  that 
none  of  them  would  have  undergone;  and  he  would  have 
climbed  over  the  barrier  by  this  time  had  not  Pippin  got 
hold  of  his  frock. 

"Don't  go,"  he  said.  "They  will  find  somebody  else." 
He  thought  he  was  under  some  sort  of  fascination  and 
that  a  tragedy  might  result  if  he  was  not  held  back. 

"Now  gome  on,  plough  boy,"  said  the  tamer,  more 
impatiently.  "Don't  keeb  the  ladies  and  chentlemen  waid- 
ing.  You  are  nod  frighdened?  No.  Id  is  only  thad 
you  are  hongry  thad  you  make  soch  faces.  De  lions  are 
hongry  too.  Hear  dem  roar.  Bod  dey  will  not  harm  you, 
wid  me  here." 

"Google,  bogle,"  said  the  unfortunate  creature,  turning 
to  Pippin,  and  trying  to  draw  his  smock  out  of  his  hand. 

"Now  gome,  whad  are  you  waiting  for?"  said  the  tamer 
in  a  voice  of  sharp  command.  "Oh,  your  friend  is  keeb- 
ing  you !  A  pair  of  fools  inshtead  of  one  fool !  Perhabs 
your  friend  will  gome  den.  You  cry,  bot  you  are  brave ; 
he  does  nod  gry  but  he  does  nod  dare  to  gome,  all  de 
same." 

Pippin  pushed  the  blubbering  youth  back  on  to  his  seat 
and  stood  up.  "Yes,  I  will  come,"  he  said,  and  he  stepped 
over   the    barrier   into   the   ring.     The   audience   cheered 


142  PITPIN 

lustily,  but  the  showman  scowled  murderously  at  the  poor 
fool  who  remained  behind.  It  was  only  for  an  instant, 
and  then  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  Pippin,  who  stood  in  front 
of  him,  with  .in  expression  not  much  pleasanter,  and  Pip- 
pin understood  what  had  been  passing,  and  hated  him. 

"Ah,  so!"  he  said.  "You  are  hongry,  what?  You 
want  de  good  bifshteg  and  de  good  wine  more  dan  your 
friend.  And  you  shall  fill  your  shtomag.  Bot  you  must 
nod  ged  dronk,  you  know.  Your  master  does  not  objeck 
to  a  silly  looking  fool,  dot  is  plain,  but  he  vill  not  have  a 
dronken  fool.  Now  den,  gome  into  my  liddle  barlour,  and 
tug  into  de  viddles." 

This  airy  badinage  amused  the  audience  somewhat,  and 
Pippin,  who  was  not  minded  to  play  the  butt  for  this 
man's  humour,  as  it  was  evident  that  the  simpleton  had 
been  trained  to  do,  gathered  up  his  wits,  now  he  was  in  for 
it,  and  thought  he  would  see  whether  he  could  get  them  on 
to  his  side. 

He  followed  the  tamer  into  the  cage,  not  without  a 
tremor,  as  the  lions,  appearing  to  resent  his  intrusion, 
growled  and  snarled.  But  his  nerves  were  in  good  order, 
he  knew  that  if  there  were  any  considerable  danger  he 
would  not  have  been  allowed  to  enter,  and  he  put  the  lions 
as  far  as  he  could  out  of  his  mind  as  he  sat  down  to  the 
table. 

Herr  Schwenck  seized  an  enormous  napkin  and  tied  it 
round  his  neck,  talking  all  the  time,  and  banging  his  head 
with  no  light  hand  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other, 
at  which  the  audience  laughed  consumedly.  Pippin  would 
willingly  have  niu;  !  red  him,  but  he  knew  that  he  must 
ki  ep  his  temper. 

"Here,  I  say !"  he  said  in  a  loud  cheerful  voice,  guard- 


PIPPIN    GOES    TO   THE    CIRCUS      143 

ing  his  head,  "Is  that  the  way  you  treat  people  who  come 
to  dine  with  you  in  your  country?  We  ought  to  have 
taught  you  better  by  this  time." 

The  people  laughed,  and  somebody  cried  out:  "Go  it, 
young  'un !"  and  the  German,  perhaps  to  hide  his  chagrin, 
took  a  turn  of  the  lions,  tapping  and  cowing  them,  during 
which  Pippin,  with  a  wink  at  the  audience,  took  the  bottle 
of  wine  off  the  table  and  put  it  under  his  chair.  This 
action  went  home,  and  the  tamer's  fat  face,  as  he  turned 
round  in  unconcealed  surprise,  brought  forth  a  roar  of 
laughter,  at  his  expense. 

"Ah,  you  are  a  fonny  man,"  he  said,  as  he  saw  what  had 
happened.  "Bot  you  most  not  be  too  fonny,  for  de  lions 
do  not  like  it.  Now  let  us  have  dot  bottle  on  de  table  and 
drink  fair,  plough  boy." 

"All  right,  old  beer-barrel,"  said  Pippin,  putting  the 
bottle  on  the  table,  "but  you  don't  look  as  if  you  could  be 
trusted  with  a  bottle,  you  know." 

The  audience,  tickled  by  the  not  very  subtle  wit  of 
the  nickname,  were  now  with  him  to  a  man.  "One  for 
you,  beer-barrel !"  they  called  out ;  and  "Go  it,  youngster, 
stick  up  to  him." 

The  man's  face  went  purple.  "What  was  dat  you 
called  me?"  he  said  in  a  low  voice  as  he  took  his  seat  at 
the  table. 

"What  did  I  call  you?"  repeated  Pippin  in  a  loud  one. 
"I  called  you  old  beer-barrel.  You  called  me  plough 
boy,  you  know." 

The  tamer  recovered  his  temper  with  an  effort.  "Ah, 
you  are  a  very  fonny  man,  dot  is  plain,"  he  said  with  fero- 
cious geniality.  "Now  let  us  begin.  First  we  will  drink," 
and  he  poured  out  half  a  tumbler  of  red  fluid  from  the 


144  PIPPIN 

bottle  into  Pippin's  glass.  "And  you  like  soda  water  wid 
it.  So?"  He  took  a  syphon,  and  squirted  the  soda 
water  from  his  side  of  the  table  at  Pippin's  glass  so  that 
it  went  all  over  him.  It  was  done  so  quickly  that  Pippin 
started  hack,  and  the  audience  roared  with  delight.  Then 
he  seized  the  glass  to  throw  its  contents  into  the  man's 
face;  but  missed  it,  for  with  an  agility  hardly  to  be  ex- 
pected he  had  sprung  up  instantly  and,  with  harsh  com- 
mands and  taps  of  his  leaded  whip,  was  cowing  the  lions 
at  the  back  of  the  cage,  who  had  broken  out  into  menacing 
clamour. 

Pippin's  heart  stood  still  for  a  moment,  for  this  note 
was  very  different  from  any  he  had  yet  heard  from  them. 
The  tamer  came  back  to  the  table  and  standing  with  his 
back  to  the  audience  pretended  to  wipe  up  the  liquor  he 
had  split.  "If  you  play  de  fool  wid  me,  de  lions  will  break 
out  and  kill  us  both,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  his  red 
face  was  a  shade  paler. 

Pippin  looked  at  him  steadily.  "Then  don't  play  the 
fool  with  me,"  he  said. 

But  now  the  ring-master  came  before  the  cage  and  said, 
"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  am  sure  we  all  admire  the  pluck 
of  this  young  man  in  venturing  into  that  den  of  ferocious 
beasts.  I  tell  you  candidly,  I  wouldn't  do  it  myself.  But 
he  will  no  doubt  eat  his  supper  more  comfortably  outside 
it,  and  if  Ilerr  Schwenek  will  kindly  release  him  I  shall  be 
honoured  if  he  will  cat  it  with  me  after  the  performance." 

Hearty  cheers  from  the  audience.  The  tamer  opened 
the  door  of  the  cage  and  remembered  his  role  so  far  as 
to  hold  out  his  hand  in  farewell,  as  Pippin,  ignoring  it, 
slipped  out.  The  cage  was  drawn  off  by  the  four  horses, 
Herr  Schwenek  bowing  and  smiling  horribly  from  the  ring 


PIPPIN    GOES    TO    THE    CIRCUS      145 

and  pursued  out  of  it  by  groans  and  cries  of  "old  beer- 
barrel  !"  Pippin,  shaking  hands  with  the  ring-master,  re- 
tired to  his  seat,  the  hero  of  the  occasion,  but  found  that 
the  poor  simpleton  whom  he  had  relieved  of  his  cruel  duty 
had  left  it. 

And  so  ended  the  first  part  of  the  performance. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

PIPPIN    SUPS    WITH    THE    RING-MASTER 

The  famous  ride  of  Dick  Turpin  to  York  is  a  favourite 
subject  for  representation  in  a  circus,  and  this  perform- 
ance was  an  excellent  one,  although  it  is  doubtful  whether 
the  original  highwayman  went  through  all  the  feats  and 
hairbreadth  escapes  here  assigned   to  him. 

Pippin  thought  he  had  never  seen  anything  so  enliven- 
ing. The  man  who  took  the  part  of  Turpin  was  a  fine 
rider,  although  he  seemed  to  be  suffering  from  a  terrible 
cough,  and  a  weakness  which  caused  him  to  reel  in  his 
saddle  after  he  had  gone  through  any  unusual  motion. 
Pippin  wondered  if  he  were  really  ill,  or  whether  this  was 
part  of  the  play,  but  there  was  so  much  else  to  enjoy  that 
he  did  not  concern  himself  deeply  over  the  matter.  Black- 
Bess,  the  hero's  horse,  evoked  his  enthusiastic  admiration. 
She  was  a  splendid  blood  mare,  in  the  pink  of  condition, 
and  seemed  to  enjoy  her  part  in  the  show,  and  to  under- 
stand completely  that  her  master  must  never  be  caught  by 
his  enemies. 

Excitement  followed  excitement.  In  the  scene  in  which 
the  stage-coach,  drawn  by  four  bright  bays,  was  held  up 
by  Turpin,  Pippin  recognised  among  the  terrified  pas- 
sengers the  beautiful  face  and  form  of  the  Countess  di 
Rimini,  and  had  an  impulse  to  go  to  her  rescue.  In  the 
episode  of  the  leaping  of  the  toll  gate  and  the  vegetable 
cart,  which  Black  Bess  took  separately,  although  she  did 

take  them,  gallantly,   the   part   of  the   humorous   coster- 

146 


PIPPIN    WITH    RINGMASTER       147 

monger  was  filled  by  little  Joey.  And  in  the  famous  scene 
of  the  Sheriff's  dinner  party,  several  old  acquaintances 
appeared. 

The  Countess  di  Rimini  was  resplendent  in  pink  silk  and 
diamonds  and  would  have  graced  any  table,  even  a  higher 
and  wider  one  than  this.  The  Fairy  Firefly  in  black 
velvet  and  pearls  was  completely  outshone  by  her  and 
looked  melancholy.  Little  Joey  was  there,  and  his  be- 
haviour, although  laughable,  would  not  have  been  per- 
mitted at  most  dinner  tables.  Signor  Franginelli  was 
there,  as  a  young  man  of  fashion,  with  a  flaxen  wig  and 
an  eyeglass.  And  among  the  guests  was  the  poor  sim- 
pleton, dressed  up  as  a  schoolboy,  now  apparently  com- 
pletely happy,  and  devoting  all  his  attention  to  the  viands, 
which  were  served  in  a  manner  not  consistent  with  the 
usages  of  high  society.  The  beefsteak  pie,  a  real  one, 
which  had  already  appeared  in  the  lion's  den,  did  duty 
again,  and  was  carved  on  the  table  by  little  Joey,  who 
piled  huge  slices  on  the  schoolboy's  plate.  He  devoured 
them  hastily,  and,  holding  out  his  plate,  said  "More; 
more!"  More  was  given  him,  and  he  devoured  that,  until 
he  had  finished  the  pie,  and  nobody  else  apparently  had 
any,  although  they  toyed  with  plates  and  glasses,  and  ad- 
dressed each  other  in  agreeable  conversation. 

The  intrusion  on  this  scene  of  revelry  of  Dick  Turpin 
and  Black  Bess,  with  the  Sheriff's  Officers  after  them, 
was  not  explained  by  anything  in  the  dialogue,  but  way 
was  made  for  them,  and  they  duly  cleared  the  hospitable 
board,  while  above  the  noise  and  confusion  that  then  arose 
Pippin  thought  he  heard  the  schoolboy,  now  stuffed  to 
repletion,  crowing  "Bogle,  google,"  in  tones  of  exultation. 

The  performance   seemed  to   end   somewhat   abruptly. 


148  PIPPIN 

Turpin  and  Black  Bess  staggered  into  the  streets  of  York, 
represented  by  two  shop  fronts  and  a  lamp  post,  Turpin 
tumbled  out  of  the  saddle  and  the  mare  lay  down  on  the 
ground.  Then  Turpin  crawled  to  her  and  began  a  speech 
indicative  of  his  affection  for  the  noble  animal  that  had 
brought  him  through  his  dangers  and  given  her  life  in  his 
service.  But  the  speech  tailed  off  into  silence.  The  man 
and  the  horse  lay  together  quite  still;  and  when  the 
Sheriff"  and  his  officers  clattered  in,  there  seemed  to  be 
some  hitch  in  the  performance.  But  the  Sheriff,  none 
other  than  the  ring-master,  leapt  from  his  saddle  and 
cried,  "Now,  we  have  got  the  miscreant.  He  is  overcome 
with  grief.  Varlets,  bring  hither  a  stretcher  and  bear 
him  hence  to  the  county  jail.'* 

A  stretcher  was  brought,  and  Turpin,  still  motionless, 
was  carried  out.  His  face  was  very  white.  The  streets 
of  York  were  filled  with  the  populace  of  York,  a  round 
dozen  of  them,  who  seemed  to  have  little  to  say  when  the 
sheriff  announced  that  the  chase,  and  the  play,  was  over. 

Pippin  waited  for  a  few  minutes  in  his  place  as  the 
audience  filed  out  of  the  big  tent,  and  one  of  the  grooms, 
now  in  shirt  sleeves,  came  up  to  him  and  led  him  to  an 
adjoining  tent  from  which  the  animals  and  the  perform- 
ers had  entered  the  ring.  Here  the  ring-master,  who  was 
also  the  owner  of  the  circus,  was  waiting,  and  shook  hands 
with  him  again. 

"Come  along,"  he  said.  "I'm  peckish,  and  I  daresay 
you  arc  too ;"  and  he  led  the  way  through  the  confusion 
of  men  putting  things  straight  after  the  performance  to 
where  several  caravans  were  standing  together  in  a  roped 
off  enclosure  of  the  field. 

"That  was  an  unfortunate  business  of  poor  Brown's — 


PIPPIN   WITH   RINGMASTER       149 

Turpin,  you  know,"  he  said.  "I  think  I  got  out  of  it  well, 
though,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Pippin,  not  quite  understanding. 

"He  would  go  on,"  said  the  ring-master,  "although  it 
was  plain  he  wasn't  fit  for  it.  However,  this  is  the  end. 
I'm  sorry  for  the  poor  fellow,  but  it  won't  do  to  have  the 
show  spoilt  by  his  fainting  in  the  middle  of  it;  and  per- 
haps an  accident." 

"Is  he  seriously  ill  then?"  asked  Pippin. 

"Consumption,"  said  the  ring-master.  "He's  a  plucky 
fellow,  but  he's  done  for  now.  Well,  I've  done  my  best 
for  him.     Here  we  are.     Come  in,  sir,  come  in." 

Soon  eight  or  nine  elaborately  decorated  caravans  stood 
in  two  rows,  the  ring-master's,  larger  and  more  elaborate 
than  the  rest,  a  little  apart  from  them  in  the  middle,  like 
a  general's  tent.  Pippin  went  up  the  steps  and  found 
himself  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  good-sized  room. 

It  was  the  most  curious  and  the  most  attractive  room 
he  had  ever  seen.  There  was  a  good  Turkey  carpet  on 
the  floor.  The  little  windows  were  curtained  with  muslin, 
the  settees  covered  with  a  bright  flowered  chintz.  A 
moveable  table  stood  between  them  at  the  further  end 
spread  for  supper,  a  good  deal  better  spread  than  the 
Sheriff's  dinner  table  in  the  play.  There  was  a  vase  of 
daffodils  in  the  middle  of  it,  and  a  silver  candlestick  at 
each  corner.  There  was  a  bookcase  full  of  books,  a 
little  cottage  piano,  a  cushioned  wicker  easy-chair,  and  a 
tiny  fireplace  with  a  fire  in  it.  There  were  numerous  lock- 
ers and  drawers  round  the  sides,  and  above  them  in  every 
available  space  little  glass  cases  of  stuffed  birds.  Every- 
thing was  scrupulously  clean,  and  there  was  an  air  about 
it   all   that   seemed   to    show   that    the    ring-master   used 


150  PITPIN 

this  as  his  permanent  home,  and  wanted  no  bettor  one. 

"Well,    what    do   you    think    of  it?"   asked    his   host,   as 

Pippin    gazed    round    him    in    wonder    and    admiration. 

"Didn't  expect  to  see  a  house  on  wheels  as  good  as  this, 
eh?" 

"No,"  said  Pippin.  "You  have  made  yourself  com- 
fortable enough." 

"That's  my  aim,"  said  the  ring-master  cheerfully.  "I 
have  lived  in  this  old  cart  for  over  twenty  years,  and 
when  I  once  get  inside  I  put  the  circus  and  everything 
to  do  with  it  out  of  my  mind,  and  live  like  a  gentleman. 
Ah,  you're  looking  at  the  birds.  All  my  own  work.  Took 
the  nests  and  eggs,  caught  or  shot  the  birds  and  set  every 
one  of  them  up." 

Pippin  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  Each  little  glass 
case  contained  a  male  and  female  bird  with  nest  and  eggs, 
cleverly  disposed  in  surroundings  as  natural  as  possible. 
Some  of  them  were  extraordinarily  life-like,  and  all  the 
birds  were  set  up  in  a  way  that  could  hardly  have  been 
bettered.  Persistent  pursuit,  knowledge,  and  observation, 
and  great  manipulative  skill,  had  gone  to  the  making  of 
the  collection,  and  it  was  somewhat  surprising  to  find  it 
as  the  hobby  of  a  circus  proprietor. 

The  proprietor,  and  naturalist,  stood  there,  still  in  his 
eighteenth  century  riding-dress  of  green  velvet  and  gold 
lace,  beaming  with  affability.  He  was  a  man  of  about 
fifty,  big  and  active.  His  face  was  intelligent  and  not 
unkindly,  though  self-satisfaction  showed  in  it  as  much  as 
any  quality. 

"When  we  are  on  the  road,"  he  said.  "I  go  off  on  my 
own  account.  We  travel  slowly  and  I  get  away  into  all 
kinds   of   country   and   catch   up   the  old  caravan   in  the 


PIPPIN   WITH   RINGMASTER       151 

evening.  But  the  worst  of  it  is,  I've  got  no  room  to  put 
up  any  more  specimens.  That's  the  only  drawback  to 
these  quarters.  Now  you  have  a  look  round — if  you 
know  anything  about  birds — and  I  will  just  get  out  of 
these  togs." 

A  man  came  in  at  this  moment  with  a  hot  dish  and  a 
bootjack,  and  Pippin  examined  the  cases  while  his  host 
changed  his  costume  for  a  comfortable  suit  of  flannels. 
"All  pretty  natural,  eh?"  he  said,  as  the  servant  helped 
him  off  with  his  boots  and  spurs. 

"You  didn't  find  this  wheatear's  nest  perched  up  on  a 
tussock  like  this,  did  you?"  asked  Pippin. 

The  ring-master  laughed.  "Ah,  I  see  you  know  some- 
thing about  it,"  he  said.  "You  and  I  ought  to  get  on  to- 
gether. William,  fetch  out  a  bottle  of  champagne. 
Here's  the  key." 

The  man  went  to  a  locker  and  produced  the  wine. 

"But  what  about  the  wheatear's  nest?"  asked  Pippin. 

"Well,  if  you'll  tell  me  how  to  show  one  where  it's 
built,  so  as  you  can  see  the  eggs,  I'll  thank  you.  See  that 
bit  of  galvanized  iron?  I  found  the  nest  under  that  in  a 
bank  of  shingle.  I  laid  it  on  the  tussock  just  to  show  it. 
There's  the  iron  and  the  shingle  all  natural,  just  along- 
side.    Now  let's  have  our  supper." 

There  was  a  savoury  stew  in  a  chafing  dish.  The 
servant  opened  the  wine  and  went  out,  and  they  were  left 
to  themselves  in  the  bright  little  room,  with  the  firelight 
flickering  on  its  shining  brass  work,  on  the  books  and  the 
chintzes  and  the  perching  birds.  It  was  difficult  to  believe 
that  it  was  a  house  on  wheels,  standing  in  the  middle  of 
a  field,  part  of  the  accessories  of  a  travelling  circus. 

Pippin  wanted  to  talk  about  the  circus,  the  proprietor 


152  PIPPIN 

about  liis  country  pursuits,  and  it  was  birds  and  eggs 
and  bird  and  egg  collecting  that  they  discussed  together 
at  first. 

"You  are  a  countryman,  of  course,"  said  the  proprietor. 
"You  have  just  the  sort  of  knowledge  which  a  man  born 
in  a  town,  as  I  was,  never  quite  acquires ;  though  I  be- 
lieve  I  am  nearer  to  it  than  most  men  who  work  things 
out  for  themselves  in  after  life." 

"I  have  never  been  in  a  big  town,"  said  Pippin.  "I 
have  lived  in  one  place  all  my  life,  and  now  I  have  come  out 
to  see  something  of  the  world." 

"Then  come  and  see  something  of  it  with  us  for  a  little," 
said  the  ring-master.  "There  is  plenty  doing  wherever 
we  go,  and  you  and  I  could  have  some  pleasant  times  to- 
gether in  the  fields,  as  we  move  from  one  town  to  the 
other." 

Pippin  was  moved  to  some  excitement  by  this  invita- 
tion, which  was  cordially  given.  He  had  lived  so  retired 
a  life  that  for  him  there  was  still  a  glamour  about  every- 
thing that  had  to  do  with  the  life  of  the  player,  that 
resplendent  being  who  in  the  glare  of  the  footlights  seems 
lifted  so  much  higher  than  mere  mundane  mortals,  and 
must  surely  in  his  refined  existence,  escape  the  dull  and 
tedious  hours  that  others  less  favoured  have  to  undergo. 
And  the  beautiful  eyes  and  exquisite  figure  of  the  Countess 
di  Rimini  rose  up  before  him  and  warmed  his  thoughts. 
It  would  be  a  sweet  privilege  to  become  acquainted 
with  that  exalted  creature,  and  to  worship  her  respect- 
fully. 

"I  should  like  to  do  that  very  much,"  he  said.  "I  have 
never  seen  anything  like  this  circus  before.  I  think  it  is 
splendid." 


PIPPIN    WITH    RINGMASTER       153 

"It  is  not  at  all  a  bad  circus,"  said  the  ring-master. 
"I  have  given  a  great  deal  of  thought  to  it,  though  it  is 
not  an  occupation  that  interests  me,  as  some  others  might. 
I  should  have  liked  to  be  a  doctor,  and  I  do  know  some- 
thing about  medicine,  enough,  at  any  rate,  to  enable  me 
to  dose  my  people  when  they  need  it,  and  save  doctor's 
bills.  I  can  set  a  bone,  too,  with  anybody,  and  that  is  a 
useful  accomplishment  for  a  circus  proprietor,  though 
we  are  very  free  of  accidents  on  the  whole.  I  was  brought 
up  to  the  business,  and  it  pays  me  very  well.  I  could 
make  more  money,  perhaps,  if  I  settled  down  to  run  a  show 
in  a  big  town,  but  I  don't  want  more  money,  and  I  like 
travelling  about.  Oh,  it  suits  me  very  well.  Do  you  know 
anything  about  horses?" 

"I  have  had  to  do  with  them  all  my  life,"  said  Pippin. 
"You  have  some  fine  ones  in  your  circus." 

"A  horse  is  an  animal  I  never  cottoned  to  much,"  said 
the  ring-master;  "and  that's  a  curious  thing  for  a  man 
in  my  trade.  I  do  get  some  good  ones,  but  the  dealers 
would  get  the  better  of  me  if  it  wasn't  for  Brown.  Brown 
was  the  son  of  a  rich  farmer,  and  ran  away  with  an 
equestrienne.  His  father  wouldn't  have  anything  more  to 
do  with  him  when  he  married  her.  He  knows  a  lot  about 
horses,  and  used  to  be  one  of  the  finest  riders  I  have  ever 
seen.  Poor  fellow!  I  don't  know  what  on  earth  I  shall  do 
without  him ;  and  evidently  he  has  come  to  the  end  of  his 
tether  now.  However,  I'm  not  going  to  bother  about 
business  to-night." 

"Is  his  wife  in  the  circus?"  asked  Pippin. 

"Oh,  yes.  You  saw  her.  The  Fairy  Firefly,  you  know. 
A  good  little  woman,  although,  of  course,  rather  past  the 
fairy  business.      Still,  I've  kept  her  on   for  the  sake  of 


154  PIPPIN 

Brown.  There  arc  plenty  of  youngsters  I  can  get  to  take 
her  place." 

"How  did — er — the  Countess  di  Rimini  come  to  take 
up  the  business?"  asked  Pippin  with  a  blush. 

"The  Countess  di — ?  Oh,  she  was  born  to  it.  She's 
the  daughter  of  old  Schwenck,  you  know,  the  lion  man. 
Good-looking  girl,  don't  you  think  so?" 

"Yes,  very,"  said  Pippin,  upon  whom  the  information 
had  come  like  a  douche  of  cold  water.  "Then  isn't  she — 
er — married?" 

"No.  She's  quite  young;  and  the  old  man  keeps  her 
pretty  close.  She  could  have  married  people  in  our  line, 
I  dare  say ;  but  that  isn't  good  enough  for  him.  I  say, 
you  stood  up  to  him  well,  in  the  cage.  That  was  a  plucky 
business.  It's  the  first  time  he  has  ever  had  anybody  offer 
from  outside.     Why  did  you  do  it?" 

"That  poor  creature  sitting  next  to  me  was  frightened 
to  death,"  said  Pippin.  "I  didn't  know  who  he  was — I 
thought—" 

"What,  Bogle!     You  think  he  really  is  frightened,  eh?" 

"I  should  think  it's  plain  enough,"  said  Pippin  shortly, 
his  ire  beginning  to  rise  again  as  he  thought  of  the  cruelty 
of  making  play  with  such  a  victim. 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  said  the  ring-master.  "I  suppose  it 
is.  Of  course,  the  poor  devil  is  simple ;  and  Schwenck 
brought  him  in.  He  couldn't  get  anybody  else  to  let  him 
knock  them  about  as  Bogle  does.  You  didn't  stand  it, 
for  instance,  and  I  don't  wonder.  Schwenck  is  a  bit  of  a 
brute.  But  if  the  poor  devil  really  is  frightened,  I'll  stop 
it.  One  of  the  other  men  can  go  in.  Schwenck  must  pay 
him.     lie  gets  quite  enough  out  of  me." 

Now  Pippin,  with  the  hot  anger  of  youth  upon  whom 


PIPPIN    WITH    RINGMASTER       155 

a  slight  has  been  laid,  had  desired  earnestly  to  come  to 
closer  quarters  with  Schwenck,  the  lion-tamer;  he  had 
also  earnestly  desired,  for  a  different  reason,  to  come  to 
closer  quarters  with  the  Countess  di  Rimini — no  Countess 
at  all,  but  a  very  pretty  girl  of  the  circus  in  masquerade. 
And  to  find  that  the  man  he  would  have  made  his  enemy 
and  the  -woman  he  would  have  liked  for  a  friend  were 
father  and  daughter  was  a  severe  shock  to  him. 

"Is — is  Schwenck's  daughter — er — fond  of  him?"  he 
asked  fatuously. 

The  ring-master  laughed.  "Rosie  Schwenck,"  he  said, 
"is  the  only  creature  in  the  world  that  her  father,  who  is 
not  at  all  afraid  of  wild  beasts,  knuckles  under  to.  She 
has  a  will  of  her  own.  They  say  she  inherits  it  from  her 
mother,  who  also  tamed  lions.  And  if  sweet  Rosie  really 
wanted  to  marry  into  the  circus,  for  instance,  or  to  leave 
it,  it  would  not  be  Schwenck  who  would  stop  her.  Oh,  I 
believe  they  are  very  good  friends.  Schwenck  is  a  brute, 
as  I  said.  But  he  does  not  dare  to  behave  like  a  brute  to 
her.     Come  in !     Come  in  !" 

It  was  the  ring-master's  attendant  who  had  knocked,  and 
now  entered.  "Brown  is  very  bad,  sir,"  he  said.  "Mrs. 
Brown  would  be  very  glad  if  you  would  kindly  step  round." 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!"  said  the  ring-master,  rising  in- 
stantly. "William,  get  out  a  small  bottle  of  champagne 
and  bring  it  along  after  me.  Come  with  me,"  he  said  to 
Pippin,  and  they  went  down  the  steps  of  the  caravan  and 
over  the  grass  till  the}''  came  to  another  elaborately  dec- 
orated one  at  the  end  of  the  row.  The  ring-master 
knocked  and  went  in,  and  Pippin  followed  him,  wondering 
a  little  what  he  was  there  for,  but  unwilling,  out  of  curi- 
osit}',  to  wait  outside. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    LAST    RIDE 

The  interior  of  the  caravan,  though  nothing  to  be  com- 
pared in  point  of  luxury  with  the  proprietor's,  was  con- 
venient enough  for  a  travelling  home.  A  diminutive  look- 
ing stove  with  brightly  polished  pots  and  pans  about  it,  a 
half  open  cupboard  with  plates  and  glasses  and  a  loaf  of 
bread  on  its  shelves,  clothes  hanging  on  pegs,  and  other 
articles  of  domestic  use,  showed  that  it  was  living-room, 
bed-room,  kitchen,  larder  and  pantry  in  one  for  its  occu- 
pants. But  every  inch  of  storage  room  was  made  use  of 
and  nothing  was  out  of  its  place,  and  it  was  surprising 
what  an  amount  of  space  was  left  over  for  its  occupants, 
who  would  certainly  be  able  to  make  themselves  comfort- 
able in  it,  if  comfort  depended  on  their  quarters  alone. 

But  there  was  bitter  trouble  in  this  cosy  box  of  a  home, 
sorrow  for  the  poor  middle-aged  woman  who,  with  the 
paint  that  had  lately  given  her  some  illusion  of  youth 
still  on  her  face,  stood  by  the  bed  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  compartment;  and  quickly  approaching  death  for  the 
man  who  was  lying  on  it,  breathing  painfully,  his  pale 
wasted  face  and  hollow  eyes  showing  plainly  how  far  the 
disease  which  he  had  fought  up  to  the  last  had  won  on 
him. 

Pippin  stood  just  inside  the  doorway,  while  the  ring- 
master went  immediately  up  to  the  bed  and  sitting  down 
beside  it,  took  the  sick  man's  wrist  in  his,  saying  some- 
thing cheerfully  commonplace  as  he  did  so.     It  was  the 

156 


THE    LAST   RIDE  157 

soothing  self-reliant  doctor's  manner,  imitated  to  perfec- 
tion, and  it  was  difficult  to  avoid  the  conviction  that  to 
assume  it  gave  him  considerable  pleasure,  although  his 
attitude  lacked  nothing  in  sympathy. 

"It  was  the  last  ride,"  said  the  man  in  a  low  hoarse 
voice,  with  a  faint  attempt  at  a  smile.  "I'm  going  now. 
I  can't  stave  it  off  any  longer." 

"Going?"  said  the  ring-master,  pocketing  his  gold 
watch.  "Not  you,  Brown.  You  want  a  rest,  that's  all. 
You've  been  doing  too  much.  I  ought  not  to  have  let  you 
go  on ;  but  you  would  do  it,  you  know." 

"I  told  him  it  was  madness,"  said  the  woman.  "He  has 
not  been  fit  for  it  these  weeks  past,  and  to-night  he  could 
hardly  sit  in  the  saddle.  Oh,  why  did  you  let  him  go  on? 
You  knew  about  it.    You  knew  how  bad  he  was." 

She  turned  an  accusing  face  on  the  ring-master.  She 
looked  old  beyond  belief.  An  artificial  pink  rose  from  the 
wreath  she  had  torn  off  clung  to  her  carefully  dressed 
hair;  her  painted  face  was  lined,  and  raddled  with  her 
tears  ;  from  beneath  a  half-fastened  morning  dress  of  dark 
serge,  hanging  limply,  showed  pink  stockings  and  slippers 
bound  with  ribbon. 

Pippin  wondered  too  why  the  ring-master,  knowing 
what  he  claimed  to  know  of  illness,  had  allowed  a  man  to 
come  to  this  extremity  in  his  service,  and  he  remembered 
that  it  was  not  until  he  himself  had  remonstrated  that 
he  had  announced  his  intention  of  stopping  the  cruelty 
with  which  the  poor  simpleton  whom  they  called  "Bogle" 
was  treated.  But  now,  as  then,  his  amends  were  ready  to 
hand.  He  seemed  to  be  a  kind  man,  but  one  whom  kind- 
ness did  not  lead  him  to  take  responsibility  for  other 
people  until  his  duty  was  pointed  out  to  him. 


158  PIPPIN 

"No  good  talking  of  what's  past,"  he  said.  "You  and 
jour  husband  had  your  own  way.  He'll  got  better.  lie 
wants  a  rest,  and  he  shall  have  it ;  and  you  too,  Mrs. 
Brown.  To-morrow  I  and  my  friend  here  will  go  into  the 
country  and  find  some  nice  farm-house  where  you  can  stay 
and  be  quiet  together  for  as  long  as  you  like.  I'll  ar- 
range- it  all  for  you,  and  you  will  have  no  worry,  and  no 
expense.  Milk  and  cream,  and  pure  air,  that's  what 
Brown  wants,  and  it,  won't  do  you  any  harm  either." 

The  siek  man's  face  had  lighted  up.  "That's  good  of 
you,"  he  said.  "If  I'm  going  to  die  I  should  like  to  die  in 
a  farm-house.  Find,  one  where  I  can  see  the  ricks  from 
my  window,  and  the  horses  going  to  the  pond  to  be  wa- 
tered, and  the  ducks  in  the  mud,  and  hear  the  cows — 
coming  in,  and — " 

A  fit  of  coughing  stopped  him.  His  wife  raised  him 
and  held  his  head  to  her  breast,  and  a  handkerchief  to  his 
mouth,  which  came  away  red. 

The  ring-master's  man  came  in  with  the  champagne, 
which  he  had  opened.  "Have  you  got  plenty  of  milk  for 
the  night?"  asked  the  ring-master,  turned  physician. 

It  seemed  there  was  very  little  milk,  and  Pippin  of- 
fered to  go  and  get  some,  although  at  that  time  of  night  it 
was  difficult  to  know  where  he  could  get  it. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  ring-master.  "Take  this  jug 
and  go  round  to  the  other  caravans  and  tents.  They  will 
cadi  give  you  a  little." 

Pippin  did  as  lie  was  bid,  rather  pleased  even  at  that 
time  at  the  idea  of  seeing  the  other  performers  of  the 
circu>  in  their  domestic  surroundings.  A  few  of  them  had 
gone  to  bed,  but  most  were  eating  their  suppers  or  putting 
their  things  away  for  the  night,  for  in  such  quarters  as 


THE   LAST   RIDE  159 

theirs  order  is  essential  for  comfort.  There  was  not  one 
of  them  who  was  not  deeply  concerned  at  their  comrade's 
state,  and  not  one  who  did  not  contribute  every  drop  of 
milk  he  had,  although  there  was  little  left  from  the  even- 
ing's supply,  and  Pippin  had  visited  a  dozen  tents  and 
caravans  before  he  was  able  to  return  with  his  jug  full. 

He  found  the  clown,  Joey,  playing  hymn  tunes  on  a 
concertina,  an  elderly  solemn  little  man  in  private  life, 
with  a  fat  bustling  little  wife  whom  Pippin  recognized  as 
having  been  present  at  the  sheriff's  dinner  party,  and  two 
pretty  children  who  with  others  had  come  into  the  ring  on 
tiny  ponies  and  performed  an  equestrian  quadrille,  dressed 
as  cavaliers  and  ladies.  The  acrobatic  family  were  busy 
making  up  their  caravan  for  the  night,  the  father  sitting 
on  the  steps  outside.  Signor  Franginelli  and  three  other 
male  performers  were  playing  cards.  They  had  no  milk. 
If  it  had  only  been  whisky,  they  said,  they  would  have 
given  their  last  drop.  They  ended  their  game  and  accom- 
panied Pippin  to  the  other  caravans,  and  to  one  or  two 
of  the  tents,  until  his  jug  was  full. 

"Maddock  ought  not  to  have  let  him  go  on,"  said  one 
of  them.  "He's  a  good  boss,  and  he's  kind-hearted  enough, 
but  he  only  thinks  about  himself  and  his  funny  amuse- 
ments." 

They  all  agreed  to  this,  but  Pippin  asked  why  the  sick 
man's  wife  had  let  him  go  on. 

"Oh,  poor  devils !  it's  a  question  of  money,"  said  Signor 
Franginelli,  whose  real  name  was  Smithers.  "It's  the 
workhouse  for  them  now.     Besides,  she  couldn't  stop  him." 

"Maddock  will  see  after  him  now,  all  right,"  said  an- 
other. "He  won't  let  them  go  to  the  workhouse.  I  say, 
are  you  going  to  try  here?    This  is  Schwenck's." 


160  PIPPIN 

Pippin  hung  back,  but  one  of  the  young  men  took  the 
jug  and  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  caravan. 

The  lion-tamer's  daughter  came  to  the  door.  She  had 
on  a  loose  print  wrapper,  and  her  thick  hair  was  coiled  up 
loosely  for  the  night.  Pippin  standing  in  the  shadow  of 
the  van  wondered  how  he  could  ever  have  thought  of  her 
as  a  married  aristocrat.  She  looked  very  pretty,  but  she 
was  quite  a  young  girl,  and  not  aristocratic.  She  said 
they  had  a  little  milk  left  and  went  inside  to  get  it. 

"I  say!"  said  Smithers.  "It  was  first-class — the  way 
you  stood  up  to  old  Schwenck.  We  all  hate  the  old  beast. 
He's  furious  with  you,  though,  and  so  is  Rosie." 

"Why?"  asked  Pippin. 

But  the  girl  came  back  with  the  jug,  and  her  father 
with  her.  "You  are  welcome  to  de  milk,"  he  said.  "Bot 
it  is  no  use.  Dot  man  is  on  his  last  legs.  He  will  not  ride 
again." 

Then  he  caught  sight  of  Pippin,  and  his  heavy  brows 
drew  together  in  a  ferocious  frown. 

"Oh,  it  is  you,"  he  said.  "You  and  I  will  talk  togeder, 
my  friend,  to-morrow.  I  am  not  treated  dc  way  you 
treated  me  widout  saying  nodings  about  it,  or  doing  nod- 
ings  eider." 

"I  shall  be  quite  ready  to  talk  with  you  to-morrow," 
said  Pippin.     "But  I  will  take  back  the  jug  now." 

"Is  that  the  young  idiot  who  nearly  got  himself  and  you 
killed,  father?"  asked  the  girl  in  a  clear  voice.  "I  should 
give  him  a  horse-whipping  if  I  were  you."  Then  she 
turned  her  back  and  went  into  the  van  and  Pippin  took  his 

"That's  Rosie!"  said  one  of  the  young  men  with  a 
giggle.     "Sweet  Rosie  Schwenck !    They're  a  pair." 


THE    LAST   RIDE  161 

When  Pippin  got  back  to  the  caravan  in  which  the  sick 
man  lay  he  found  Maddock,  the  ring-master,  and  the  poor 
wife  with  very  grave  faces.  Brown's  thin  cheeks,  which 
had  been  so  pale  and  hollow,  were  flushed,  and  he  was 
talking  quickly,  in  a  low  voice.  Maddock  sat  by  the  bed, 
and  tried  every  now  and  then  to  give  him  champagne, 
which  he  waved  away  with  his  restless  hands,  and  had 
spilt  on  the  sheets.  His  wife  was  at  his  pillow  trying  to 
soothe  him,  and  crying,  as  she  murmured,  "Lie  still,  dear, 
lie  still.     I  am  here  with  you." 

"I've  sent  for  a  doctor,"  Maddock  whispered,  "but  I 
think  he  is  going."  Pippin  sat  down  on  a  locker,  and 
there  was  silence,  except  for  the  monotonous  chatter  of 
the  dying  man,  which  never  ceased. 

His  disjointed  sentences  at  first  carried  no  meaning  but 
presently  Pippin,  growing  used  to  his  voice,  could  make 
out  a  sentence  here  and  there,  and  then  nearly  everything. 

The  circus,  which  had  been  his  daily  life  for  so  many 
years,  had  slipped  out  of  his  mind  completely,  and  he  was 
back  again  in  the  home  of  his  boyhood,  in  the  quiet  coun- 
try, among  the  fields  and  lanes. 

"Get  the  towels,  Tom,"  he  was  saying.  "It  will  be 
fresh  and  cold  in  the  pool.  There's  the  big  trout.  There ; 
can't  you  see?  Just  in  the  shadow  of  the  rock.  Lean 
over  him — gently  now — tickle  for  him.  Ah,  he's  away, 
you  made  a  splash.  The  water's  boiling — come  out. 
Boiling,  mother.  The  kettle's  boiling.  Father  is  in  the 
five  acres.  They  have  just  carried  the  last  load.  .  .  .  Ah! 
dear  old  father!  I  wish  you  would  speak  to  me,  father. 
I've  told  you  all  about  it.  She's  as  good  as  gold.  You 
will  love  her  if  you  will  just  let  her  come  and  see  you. 
Father,  don't  look  like  that.     Say  something. 


1G2  pi  r  PIN 

"Moses  in  the  bulrushes.  There's  the  little  baby  in  the 
cradle.  Sec,  Tom?  No,  not  on  Sunday.  Mustn't  play  on 
Sundays,  Tom.  Look  at  the  pictures.  Hush!  don't  wake 
father.  Hear  the  clock  tick.  Sit  quiet.  Listen  to  the  old 
bee  buzzing.  He's  just  come  in  from  the  pinks.  Isn't  it 
hot,  Tom?  Mother  has  gone  to  the  dairy.  It  is  cool  in 
the  dairy.  Come  quietly  then  and  don't  wake  father. 
He'll  be  angry. 

"Here  we  go,  Tom.  Don't  fall  off.  Hold  on  tight 
when  he  puts  his  head  down  to  drink.  Father !  I'm  slip- 
ping! I  can't  stick  my  knees  in.  Dobbin's  back's  too 
big.  Why,  it's  Charlie!  I  can  stick  my  knees  in  now. 
Oh,  father!  my  very  own?  But  Tom  must  ride  him  too, 
mustn't  you,  Tom,  when  you  get  older.  But  you  can't, 
Tom.  You're  dead.  How's  that?  You  were  here  just 
now.  Can't  you  get  up,  Tom?  Don't  groan  so.  Poor 
White  Stocking!  His  back's  broken.  We'll  soon  have 
him  off  you.  I  told  you  not  to  ride  him.  You  are  not 
strong  enough.  Oh,  Tom,  Tom,  what  will  father  say? 
He  loved  you  best." 

He  lay  quiet  for  a  time.  His  wife  cried  softly,  holding 
his  hand  in  hers.  Maddock  sat  silent  by  the  bed-side 
and  looked  at  his  watch  every  now  and  then.  Outside, 
the  noise  and  movement  had  subsided.  The  circus  people 
were  sleeping  or  preparing  to  sleep.  It  was  very 
quiet. 

An  hour  went  by  and  the  doctor  had  not  come,  nor  had 
Maddock's  messenger  returned. 

Then  the  sick  man  began  to  mutter  again,  incoherently 
at  first,  but  by  and  by  in  a  louder  voice,  sentences  appear- 
ing and  gradually  becoming  more  connected.  His  -whole 
life  seemed  to  be  passing  in  front  of  him,  sunny  and  shel- 


THE    LAST   RIDE  163 

tered  at  first,  as  he  babbled  of  the  sights  and  sounds  of 
the  farm  yard,  the  garden,  and  the  orchard,  the  woods 
and  hedgerows  in  the  spring,  birds  nesting,  bathing  in  the 
cool  stream,  the  village  church,  cricket  on  the  village 
green,  Christmas  time  in  the  big  farm-house,  snowballing 
and  skating — Pippin  saw  his  life  as  it  had  been,  much  like 
his  own,  happy  and  active,  abounding  in  health;  he  felt 
as  if  he  had  known  his  father,  stern,  rather  terrifying, 
but  with  a  power  of  arousing  admiration  and  affection, 
his  mother,  busy  and  warm-hearted,  his  younger  brother, 
bright  and  eager,  over  whom  lay  the  shadow  of  early 
death. 

He  saw  the  shadow  deepening  over  the  big  house  and 
wide  fields,  the  son  restless  and  discontented,  as  he  himself 
had  been,  but  with  more  reason :  his  mother  sad  and  dis- 
pirited, his  father  violently  morose.  And  then  his  passion 
for  the  girl  of  the  circus,  innocent  enough,  and  his  plead- 
ing with  his  parents  to  take  him  back  into  their  favour ; 
then  a  clean  break  and  no  more  talk  of  his  early  home  or 
of  his  father  and  mother. 

The  life  of  the  circus  then,  always  moving  from  place 
to  place,  plodding  along  roads  interminably,  the  buying 
and  breaking  of  horses,  his  schemes  and  ideas  for  perform- 
ances in  the  ring,  no  glamour,  a  rather  hard  life  of  work 
and  continuous  movement,  but  not  an  unhappv  one,  some 
friendships  and  always  apparent  the  affection  for  the  wife 
who  had  cost  him  his  home  and  his  inheritance. 

The  night  wore  on.  Maddock's  servant  returned  and 
whispered  that  he  had  ridden  miles  to  find  the  doctor,  who 
had  been  summoned  into  the  country  and  would  come  as 
soon  as  he  was  free.  It  was  plain  then  that  he  could  do 
nothing  when  he  did  come.      The   sick  man  was   sinking. 


164  PIPPIN 

He  lay  for  long  periods  comatose,  and  then  talked  on  in 
a  low  monotonous  murmur. 

About  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  after  a  long  period 
during  which  nothing  of  what  he  said  could  be  understood, 
his  voice  became  louder  and  clearer.  His  clucks  were 
hectic,  his  eyes  wide  open.  Pippin,  looking  at  him, 
thought  that  he  had  taken  a  turn  for  the  better,  as  if 
consciousness  had  returned  to  him,  and  as  if  he  were 
stronger. 

"Now  quiet,  my  beauty  !  In  a  minute,  in  a  minute !  On 
you  go  then !  It's  you  they  are  cheering,  Black  Bess,  not 
me.  Over  you  go !  Ah,  they  can't  follow  us  there.  You 
took  it  like  a  bird.  Oh,  let's  get  on  .  .  .  get  on.  A 
gallop  and  a  jump  and  then  stand  still  .  .  .  it's  always 
the  same.  Come  away,  the  way  is  clear  at  last.  At  last. 
Now  settle  down  to  it,  my  brave  girl.  York  is  miles  ahead, 
but  we'll  outstrip  them.  Gallop,  gallop,  gallop,  under  the 
moon.  Ah,  the  gate's  shut  and  they're  close  behind  us. 
Steady  now!  Pull  yourself  together.  I've  hit  him;  the 
way's  clear.  No!  Good  girl,  good  girl!  Now,  we'll  gain 
on  them.  But  they're  fresh  and  you've  galloped  for 
miles,  my  black  beauty.  Here,  take  a  drink,  we've  got  a 
minute  to  spare.  On  again.  Ah,  that's  better.  This  is 
glorious.  We've  never  done  this  before,  Black  Bess.  It's 
our  last  ride  together.  Let's  get  away  from  everything. 
We'll  find  Tom  at  York,  Bess.  Tom  and  White  Stock- 
ing. They're  not  really  dead.  And  father.  If  you  can 
get  there  he'll  be  so  pleased.  Kitty  and  I  can  go  home 
together.  Such  a  good  feed  you'll  have  in  the  old  stable, 
and  I'll  show  Kitty  the  house  and  the  garden  when  I've 
made  you  all  snug.  Keep  it  up,  Black  Bess.  It's  the  last 
ride.     Now,  pull  up  for  a  second.     Do  you  hear  them? 


THE    LAST   RIDE  165 

Yes,  they're  gaining,  but  we'll  outstrip  them  yet.  On 
again ;  only  a  few  miles  more.  Ah,  my  beauty !  You're 
nearly  done.  Now  wait  .  .  .  quite  still !  There's  old 
fat  Snoring  in  front.  What  is  he  doing  here?  I'll  wing 
him.  Ah,  ha !  That's  done  the  trick.  Now,  on  again ! 
Snoring  isn't  hurt.  They'll  wait  a  bit  with  him.  There 
are  the  lights.  Only  a  mile  more.  Keep  up,  keep  up. 
Now  we've  done  them.  They  can't  catch  us  now.  Why, 
there's  Tom  on  White  Stocking.  I  knew  he  wasn't  dead. 
Tom !  Tom !  He's  waving  to  us.  And  father !  He  wants 
us  home.  .  .  .  Home,  .  .  .  Bess,  .  .  .  Kitty  .  .  .  we're 
home  at  last." 

He  sank  back  on  his  pillow.  His  wife,  weeping  bitterly, 
drew  his  head  on  to  her  breast,  heedless  of  the  blood  that 
gushed  from  his  mouth  and  stained  her  gown.  But  he  had 
ridden  his  last  ride.     He  was  at  home  again. 


CHAPTER  XV 

PIPPIN    JOINS    THE    CIRCUS 

Pippin  might  have  slept  until  noon  the  next  day,  but  he 
\v;is  aroused  about  nine  o'clock  by  a  vigorous  shake  of 
the  shoulder,  and  sat  up  in  bed  to  find  Maddock,  the 
circus  proprietor,  standing  over  him. 

"You  sleep  sound,  my  young  friend,"  he  said.  "I 
knocked  at  your  door  and  could  not  wake  you,  so  I  made 
bold  to  come  in.  Put  on  your  clothes  and  come  down  to 
me.     I  have  something  important  to  say  to  you." 

He  went  out  of  the  room,  and  Pippin  jumped  from  his 
bed  and  dressed  quickly.  The  events  of  the  previous 
night,  forgotten  in  his  deep  sleep,  came  back  to  him.  He 
had  left  the  poor  fairy  of  the  circus  weeping  over  her 
dead,  and  Maddock  consoling  her,  with  more  tact  than 
might  have  been  expected  of  him,  though  in  face  of  such 
grief  and  such  a  loss  it  was  little  enough  that  he  could 
do.  Pippin  had  never  looked  upon  death  before,  and  he 
had  crept  away  to  his  inn,  sad  at  heart  and  with  a  feeling 
of  awe  at  the  sight  of  that  great  mystery.  His  night's 
sleep  and  the  bright  new  day  had  already  lessened  the 
effect  of  what  he  had  seen,  and  as  he  dressed  he  wondered 
what  the  proprietor  had  to  say  to  him. 

Maddock  was  in  the  parlour  of  the  inn,  making  friends 

with  the  landlord  and  his  wife,  who  were  pleased  to  get 

the  story  of  the  tragedy  that  had  occurred  from  the  lips 

of  such  an  authority. 

"Riding   and   lepping   one    minute,    cold    and   dead    the 

1GG 


PIPPIN   JOINS    THE    CIRCUS       167 

next,"  said  the  landlord.  "  'Tis  well  said  that  all  flesh 
is  grass."  And  his  wife  said,  "Ah,  that's  a  true  word, 
and  here's  the  gentleman  for  his  breakfast." 

"Now,  look  here,"  said  the  ring-master  to  Pippin  when 
they  were  alone  together.  "Why  I  didn't  think  of  it  last 
night  I  don't  know;  but  you  must  understand  that  when 
I  am  called  on  to  play  the  doctor  all  else  goes  out  of  my 
head.  I  think  that  poor  fellow  went  out  of  the  world  as 
comfortably  as  if  a  regular  practitioner  had  had  the  han- 
dling of  him.    What  do  you  think  ?" 

Pippin  thought  it  was  quite  possible,  and  wondered 
what  was  coming  next. 

"Now  it  has  occurred  to  me  that  you  are  the  very  man 
to  fill  his  place,"  said  Maddock.  "The  idea  came  to  me 
as  I  was  shaving.     What  do  you  say?" 

"What,  ride  in  the  circus?"  exclaimed  Pippin. 

"Yes.  Bless  you,  there's  nothing  low  about  that.  You 
put  on  a  fine  suit  of  clothes  and  you  bestride  a  fine  horse. 
And  you  are  the  hero  of  the  evening.  There's  not  a  girl 
in  any  place  we  perform  in  that  won't  be  dying  to  make 
friends  with  you.  You  won't  do  a  hand's  turn.  The 
stablemen  will  look  after  your  horse.  You  will  be  a  gen- 
tleman, inside  the  ring  and  out  of  it." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,"  said  Pippin,  who  was  not 
a  little  moved  at  the  prospect  held  out  to  him,  in  which 
he  was  young  enough  to  scent  honour  and  glory ;  for 
though  he  had  a  shrewd  head  on  his  shoulders  and  was  as 
modest  as  becomes  a  youth,  he  had  not  yet  gone  past  the 
years  in  whicli  it  is  pleasant  to  play  a  gallant  part  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world  and  to  sniff  the  applause  that  comes  of 
it.  "I  should  like  it,"  he  said.  "But  I  don't  know  whether 
I  could." 


168  PIPPIN 

"Why?  You  are  your  own  master,  you  told  me.  You 
would  see  more  of  life-  travelling  with  us  than  walking  by 
yourself.  You  would  be  put  to  no  expense  for  living.  In 
fact  I  would  pay  you  something,  after  a  short  trial. 
Come  now,  it  isn't  a  chance  that  everybody  would  get ; 
but  I  have  taken  to  you,  and  I  should  like  to  have  you 
with  me." 

"I  would  come  if  I  thought  I  could  play  the  part." 

"You  can  ride  and  jump,  can't  you?" 

"I  could  do  that  part  of  it,  and  with  such  a  mount  I 
should  enjoy  it.     But  the  words — " 

"Oh,  the  words  !  There  are  very  few  of  them.  You 
can  learn  them  in  an  hour,  and  we  will  have  a  rehearsal 
to  give  you  your  cues.  It  is  an  easy  job,  and  it  would 
be  all  I  should  ask  you  to  do  except  to  give  an  eye  to  the 
horses  generally,  and  every  now  and  then  to  pick  up  a 
likely  new  one.  You  have  had  the  same  sort  of  training 
as  poor  Brown,  and  you  might  be  as  useful  to  me  as  he 
was.  If  you  are,  there  is  a  good  living  in  it  for  you. 
And  I  am  quite  sure  that  you  and  I  could  get  on  well 
together.     Give  it  a  trial,  at  any  rate." 

So  Pippin  consented,  and  went  back  with  his  new  friend 
to  the  field  where  the  circus  was  encamped. 

He  found  a  scene  of  great  confusion  in  progress.  The 
great  tent  in  which  the  performance  was  held  had  already 
been  struck,  and  with  the  other  tents  used  as  temporary 
stables  and  quarters  for  the  attendants  and  work  people, 
was  in  course  of  being  loaded  on  to  wagons.  Men  and 
women  and  children  were  here  and  there  about  the  cara- 
vans, those  of  them  who  had  appeared  in  brave  costumes 
the  night  before  looking  as  if  they  had  suddenly  descended 
several  steps  of  the  social  ladder,  but  also  as  if  they  did 


PIPPIN    JOINS    THE    CIRCUS        169 

not  mind  having-  done  so ;  for  it  was  a  fine  spring-  morning 
and  they  were  about  to  take  the  road.  That  was  the  part 
of  their  life  that  did  not  pall,  when  the  sun  shone  and  the 
wind  sang  and  they  went  on  through  the  green  country. 
The  lights  and  the  applause  of  the  evening  were  not  to  be 
compared  with  it,  and  it  was  better  to  be  yourself,  plain 
John  or  Kate  of  the  common  people,  with  your  bread  to 
earn  and  your  friends  to  keep,  than  to  play  at  lords  and 
ladies,  though  that  was  pleasant  too,  in  youth  and  for  a 
time. 

As  Pippin  came  into  the  encampment  with  the  master 
of  the  circus,  they  met  a  sad  little  procession.  The  body 
of  the  man  whose  place  Pippin  was  to  take,  enclosed  in  a 
wooden  shell,  was  being  carried  away  on  a  cart.  By  its 
side  walked  the  widow,  already  in  a  black  dress  and  a  black 
bonnet.  The  gilded  and  emblazoned  caravan  in  which 
she  and  her  husband  had  lived  their  married  life,  travelling 
from  place  to  place  with  much  external  splendour,  and 
within  some  homeliness  and  contentment,  was  her  home  no 
longer.  In  that  life  of  constant  movement  there  could  be 
no  lingering  in  surroundings  dear  to  memory.  Death  had 
severed  her  from  them  in  a  few  hours,  and  with  her  hus- 
band's body  she  took  away  the  few  possessions  that  had 
been  his  and  hers,  and  left  the  gilded  van  to  be  occupied 
by  others. 

The  men  who  were  at  work  in  the  field  left  off  as  the 
coffin  was  drawn  past  them,  and  stood  in  silence  with 
heads  bared.  Some  women  pressed  round  the  poor  widow 
and  bade  her  farewell,  with  tears  and  words  of  sympathy. 
The}r  made  way  for  the  circus  proprietor  as  he  and  Pippin 
entered  the  enclosure,  and  Maddock  shook  hands  with  the 
woman  and  talked  to  her  for  a  little.     When  he  rejoined 


170  PIPPIN 

Pippin  he  said,  "If  she  wants  to  come  back,  I'll  find  a 
place  for  her.  Put  I  don't  think  she  will.  She'll  be  all 
right  for  a  time,  anyhow,  and  then  we  will  see  what  we  can 
do  for  her."  From  which  Pippin  gathered  that  he  had  be- 
haved generously  according  to  his  lights;  and  he  after- 
wards learnt  that  this  was  the  case. 

Put  the  Fairy  Firefly  he  saw  no  more.  Creeping  age 
and  sudden  sorrow  had  made  an  end  of  her,  and  it  was  a 
Fairy  Rosebud,  a  slip  of  a  girl  with  smooth  pink  cheeks 
and  a  laughing  mouth,  who  took  her  place  in  the  ring 
and  leapt  through  the  hoops  of  flame  and  the  hoops  of 
roses. 

Presently  all  was  ready  and  the  circus  took  the  road. 
First  went  the  carts  with  the  gear  and  the  men  who  looked 
after  it,  for  they  had  to  be  at  the  place  where  the  night's 
halt  was  to  be  made  and  have  everything  ready  for  the 
reception  of  the  circus  proper.  When  they  had  moved 
off  and  been  given  a  clear  start,  the  circus  horses  led  the 
way  for  the  second  contingent,  some  led  by  grooms,  some 
ridden.  Then  came  the  caravans,  each  drawn  by  two 
horses,  and  driven  by  the  men  who  occupied  them,  their 
families  or  companions  walking  by  the  side  or  busy  with 
their  duties  within.  The  great  elephant  lumbered  out 
swinging  his  trunk,  with  his  keeper  seated  on  his  head. 

The  lions'  cage,  closely  boarded,  was  near  the  end  of  the 
procession,  and  behind  it  Hcrr  Schwenck's  van,  which  was 
driven  by  a  groom,  and  neither  the  lion  tamer  nor  his 
daughter  was  to  be  seen.  At  the  end  of  all  came  the  pro- 
prietor's caravan,  more  gorgeous  outside  than  the  rest, 
and  a  smaller  one  behind  it  which  was  used  as  a  kitchen 
and  store-room  for  himself  alone  and  for  quarters  for  his 
servant.     Mr.  Maddock  travelled  as  comfortably  as  any 


PIPPIN    JOINS    THE    CIRCUS       171 

man  in  the  country,  and  his  dwelling  place  was  always  at 
hand,  though  he  paid  no  rent  for  it. 

When  he  had  seen  the  last  of  his  belongings  off  the 
ground  he  invited  Pippin  inside  his»van.  "You  will  like  to 
walk  or  ride  as  a  rule,"  he  said,  "but  we  have  a  good  deal 
to  settle  to-day,  and  had  better  pretend  we  are  sitting  in 
a  room  indoors.  When  there  is  work  to  be  done  you  must 
learn  to  forget  that  you  are  travelling." 

It  was  not  very  easy.  The  sun  shone  in  at  the  little 
muslin-curtained  windows,  trees  and  hedgerows  passed  by, 
the  fresh  air  came  in  through  the  door,  of  which  the  upper 
half  was  open,  invitingly,  and  the  gentle  swaying  of  the 
great  van,  although  its  rubber  tires  and  strong  springs 
of  steel  took  off  as  much  as  possible  of  the  motion,  con- 
veyed the  idea  of  pleasant  progress.  Pippin  would  have 
liked  to  be  out  of  doors ;  he  had  come  to  dislike  the  feeling 
of  confinement  within  walls ;  and  the  idea  came  to  him  that 
he  had  been  unwise  to  bind  himself  to  any  occupation, 
however  attractive  it  might  be.  But  he  had  done  so,  for  a 
time  at  any  rate,  and  he  resigned  himself  to  the  loss  of 
his  freedom  and  set  himself  with  a  sigh  to  his  new  duties. 

Maddock  gave  him  a  manuscript  copy  of  the  words  he 
would  have  to  speak  in  his  part  of  Dick  Turpin.  There 
were  not  many  of  them,  for  his  appearances  as  a  rule 
explained  themselves.  "You  will  have  plenty  of  time  to 
learn  it  all  by  to-morrow,"  said  Maddock;  "and  we  will 
have  a  rehearsal  in  the  afternoon." 

There  was  to  be  no  performance  that  evening.  They 
were  timed  to  reach  the  next  town  at  noon  on  the  follow- 
ing day,  and  would  find  everything  prepared  for  them. 

"Now  we  will  go  on  to  the  wardrobe  van,"  said  the  pro- 
prietor, "and  get  you  fitted  out  for  the  part." 


172  PIPPIN 

They  walked  on  together  along  the  line  of  moving  cara- 
vans which  had  begun  to  straggle  a  little.  They  passed 
that  of  the  family  of  acrobats.  The  elder  son  was  driving 
the  horses,  the  mother  was  sitting  in  the  doorway  sewing, 
and  the  father  with  the  younger  children  was  walking. 

"What  is  it  this  morning?"  asked  Maddock  as  they 
passed. 

"Mental  arithmetic,"  replied  the  acrobat.  He  had  a 
little  book  in  his  hand,  and  Maddock  and  Pippin  walked 
with  him  until  he  had  propounded  a  problem  concerning 
the  consumption  of  plums  by  a  greedy  boy  called  Tom  and 
an  abstemious  boy  called  Harry,  and  received  the  correct 
answer.  "Good  girl,  Molly !  go  up  top,"  he  said  as  one  of 
them  lit  upon  it,  and  the  youngest  child,  a  pretty  little  girl 
of  about  ten  with  dark  curls  and  big  eyes,  took  her  place 
next  to  him,  elbowing  out  an  elder  sister. 

"A  very  good  fellow,  Polder,"  said  the  proprietor  as 
they  walked  on.  "He  teaches  his  children  like  that  every 
morning.  In  our  life  it  is  difficult  to  see  that  the  children 
are  properly  educated.    But  there's  no  trouble  about  his." 

They  passed  the  lions'  cage,  and  in  front  of  it  the 
van  of  their  owner.  Hcrr  Otto  Schwenck  was  sitting  in 
the  doorway  reading  a  paper.  Maddock  greeted  him 
cheerfully,  and  he  looked  up,  but  when  he  saw  Pippin  his 
face  became  red  and  angry. 

"Ah,  it  is  you,  is  it?"  he  said.  "If  you  gome  near  me 
I  will  give  you  a  horsevipping." 

"No,  you  won't,  Schwenck,"  said  Maddock.  "This  gen- 
tleman is  one  of  us  now.  He  is  taking  poor  Brown's 
place.  I'll  have  no  quarrelling  among  my  people.  You 
know  that  well  enough." 

The  German  rose,  and  holding  on  by  the  door  frame, 


PIPPIN    JOINS    THE    CIRCUS        173 

poured  out  a  flood  of  excited  guttural  language.  "You 
vill  have,  you  vill  not  have,  Mr.  Maddog!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Vot  is  it  you  are  saying  to  me?  You  are  not  my  master. 
You  mind  your  own  business.  Dis  young  man  and  me  vill 
seddle  togeder.  You  saw  him  vid  your  own  eyes  throw 
a  glass  of  vine  at  my  face,  and  dot  is  a  ding  I  vill  pud 
up  vid  from  no  man.  And  let  me  tell  you  dis,  Mr.  Mad- 
dog,  if  I  had  nod  had  my  vits  aboud  me,  dere  vould  have 
been  a  very  nasty  accidend.  If  de  lions  vos  to  see  me 
attacked  in  der  cage  dey  vould  be  on  me  in  a  flash,  soh ! 
and  dere  vould  nod  have  been  moch  of  dis  fine  chentleman 
left ;  nor  of  your  circus,  ven  de  facts  became  known." 

"Yes,  that's  all  right,  Schwenck,"  said  Maddock.  "I 
saw  that  and  stopped  the  business.  And  you  got  the 
beasts  under.  No  harm  was  done,  and  it  won't  occur 
again.     Don't  make  a  fuss  about  nothing." 

"Ye  call  it  nodings !"  cried  the  angry  tamer.  "You  saw 
him  wid  your  own  eyes  trow  a  glass  of  vine  at  my  face; 
and  you  heard  him  call  me  an  obrobrious  name." 

"Well,  he  was  only  giving  back  what  he  got,"  said 
Maddock,  "but  I  dare  say  he  will  apologize  for  it  and 
end  the  matter." 

"No,  I  won't  apologize,"  said  Pippin  hotly.  "Why  on 
earth  should  I?  Any  one  would  think,  to  hear  Mr. 
Schwenck  or  whatever  his  name  is,  that  I  had  insulted  him 
without  any  provocation.  What  about  him  banging  me 
about  the  head  and  squirting  soda  water  at  me  and  calling 
me  plough  boy?" 

"Well,  aren't  you  a  plough  boy?" 

It  was  the  Countess  di  Rimini,  otherwise  Miss  Rosie 
Schwenck,  who  had  asked  the  question.  She  had  come  to 
the  door  of  the  van,  and  was  looking  at  Pippin  with  a  face 


174.  PIPPIN 

of  cool  scorn.  She  wore  a  coat  and  skirt  of  blue  serge 
and  a  hat  of  dark  brown  straw,  and  if  she  did  not  in  that 
costume  look  like  an  Italian  Countess  she  did  look  a  very 
pretty  girl  with  a  beautiful  figure,  although  her  attrac- 
tions were  not  increased  in  Pippin's  eyes  by  the  look  with 
which  she  surveyed  him.  He  dropped  his  eyes  and  made 
no  reply  to  her. 

But  Maddock  said:  "Now  then,  Rosie,  we  don't  want 
any  of  your  impudence.  Captain  Glanville  is  a  gentle- 
man as  any  one  can  see  with  eyes  in  their  head ;  and  yours 
are  clear  enough." 

"Captain  Glanville!"  she  repeated  with  infinite  con- 
tempt. "A  pretty  Captain !  He  is  no  more  a  Captain 
than  I  am." 

" — a  Countess,"  added  Pippin,  raising  his  eyes  to  her, 
and  she  turned  her  back  and  went  into  the  van.  "But 
I'm  not  going  to  be  called  Captain  Glanville,"  he  said  to 
the  proprietor.  "I  won't  take  a  style  that  I've  no  right 
to." 

"You  don't  want  to  appear  under  your  own  name,  I 
suppose.  You  arc  the  son  of  a  rich  country  gentleman 
travelling  for  your  pleasure,  and  if  you  like  to  amuse 
yourself  with  us  for  a  time  it  is  not  to  be  brought  up 
against  you.  Glanville  is  a  good  enough  stage  name.  I 
thought  of  it  this  morning  as  I  was  shaving.  And  as  for 
the  captain — you  can  take  it  or  leave  it  as  you  please." 

"I  will  leave  it,"  said  Pippin.  "But  I  don't  object  to 
the  Glanville.  I  don't  care  about  using  my  own  name, 
although  when  you  say  my  father  is — " 

"Then  that's  settled,"  Maddock  broke  in  rather  hur- 
riedly. "Schwenck,  I've  something  else  to  say  to  you. 
Mr.  Glanville  is  quite  right.     It  is  ridiculous  to  suppose 


PIPPIN    JOINS    THE    CIRCUS        175 

you  are  going  to  get  a  gentleman  of  quality  inside  your 
den  of  lions  and  treat  him  as  you  did  without  his  round- 
ing on  you.     And  not  only  that — " 

"How  vos  I  to  know  he  vos  a  gentleman?"  interrupted 
the  tamer  sulkily.  "He  does  not  dress  like  one.  But  we 
vill  let  bygones  by  bygones.  Only  I  tell  him  dis,  dat  he 
vos  very  near  his  death  last  night,  and  me  too." 

His  attitude,  although  still  the  reverse  of  amiable,  had 
undergone  a  change,  perhaps  as  the  result  of  Maddock's 
description  of  Pippin's  social  status,  a  description  which 
nothing  that  had  been  told  him  warranted.  But  the  pub- 
lic, which  loves  a  play-actor,  loves  him  all  the  better  if 
there  is  reason  to  suppose  that  he  is  also  something  be- 
sides, and  Maddock's  eye  was  keenly  alive  to  the  tastes  of 
his  patrons ;  also,  it  appeared,  to  those  of  the  lion-tamer. 

"Well,  it's  all  over  now,"  he  said,  "and  nothing  more 
is  to  be  said  about  it.  And  look  here,  Schwenck,  Bogle  is 
frightened  to  death  of  the  lions.  You  can't  use  him  any 
more." 

"What,  dot  fool?"  exclaimed  the  tamer.  "Is  he  a  gen- 
tleman travelling  for  his  pleasure?  Vot  nonsense!  He 
is  my  servant  and  I  shall  use  him  as  I  please." 

"No,  you  won't,"  said  Maddock.  "He'll  have  a  fit 
inside  the  cage  one  of  these  days,  and  then  there'll  be  a 
pretty  commotion.  You  must  get  one  of  the  men,  and 
pay  him.  Now  mind,  Bogle  doesn't  go  into  the  cage 
again;"  and  he  walked  on  with  Pippin  and  left  the  tamer 
to  digest  his  ultimatum. 

"I  know  how  to  treat  Schwenck,"  he  said.  "Be  friendly 
but  firm ;  and  that's  my  rule  with  everybody.  There's  very 
little  friction,  all  things  considered,  and  if  there  is  I  can 
always  stop  it.     Hulloa,  Bogle!    Had  a  good  breakfast?" 


176  PIPPIN 

The  idiot  boy — he  was  little  above  that  in  intellect  — 
was  coming  back  towards  Schwenck's  van  carrying  a  pail 
of  water.  He  had  an  old  scarlet  coat  and  a  hat  with 
several  feathers  in  it.  He  grinned  all  over  his  great  fool- 
ish face  at  the  question,  and  said:  "More!  more!" 

"No  more  till  dinner  time,"  said  Maddock.  "You  are 
not  to  go  inside  the  lion's  cage  any  more.  You'll  be 
pleased  at  that,  won't  you?" 

He  did  not  seem  to  understand  what  was  said  to  him. 
But  at  the  word  lion  his  face  changed  and  a  shadow  of 
that  look  of  terror  which  Pippin  had  seen  before  came 
over  it.  Then  he  carried  his  eyes  to  Pippin's  face — he 
had  not  looked  at  him  before — and  his  face  changed  again 
and  expanded  into  a  broad  grin.  "Bogle,  google,"  he  said 
and  nodded  his  head  vigorously  in  token  of  gratitude  and 
admiration. 

"Poor  devil!"  said  Maddock  as  they  walked  on.  "I 
don't  know  where  Schwenck  picked  him  up,  but  he  makes 
him  useful.  I  pay  him  a  shilling  or  two  a  week  as  well, 
and  he  spends  it  all  on  food.  There  would  be  money  in 
him  as  a  champion  eater,  but  I  don't  care  for  that  class  of 
business.     This  is  Mother  Bunch's  van." 

They  went  up  the  stairs  and  into  the  van.  Its  interior 
was  very  small,  for  all  round  the  sides  were  drawers  and 
lockers,  and  from  hooks  a  great  variety  of  garments  hung 
suspended.  An  old  woman  sat  at  a  table  with  a  sewing 
machine  before  her  and  a  great  billowy  mass  of  pink  mus- 
lin, and  by  her  side  stood  a  pretty  child  of  fourteen  or  so, 
in  an  ugly  tartan  dress. 

"Well,  Fairy  Rosebud,"  said  Maddock,  taking  her  little 
chin  in  his  fingers.  "You've  got  a  lift  up,  haven't  you? 
Going  to  be  a  good  girl  and  practise  hard,  are  you?" 


PIPPIN    JOINS    THE    CIRCUS        177 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  showing  her  white  teeth.  "I 
shall  be  able  to  do  it  barebacked  in  a  week,  I  think." 

"I  don't  like  these  bareback  turns,  Mr.  Maddock," 
said  the  old  woman,  shaking  her  head.  "Mr.  Brown  didn't 
like  them  neither  and  wouldn't  let  Mrs.  Brown  try.  I've 
half  a  mind  not  to  let  Lizzie  take  it  on." 

"Oh,  Granny !"  said  the  girl,  "if  you  practise  well  and 
are  very  careful,  there's  no  danger  at  all ;  and  it  looks  so 
much  better  than  jumping  about  on  a  board,  which  any 
one  can  do." 

"Looks !"  grumbled  the  old  woman.  "It's  all  looks  with 
you." 

"And  so  it  ought  to  be  in  a  public  performance,"  said 
Maddock.  "You're  a  good  girl,  Lizzie.  You  practise 
well,  and  when  you  can  do  the  turn  safely  barebacked  you 
shall  have  more  money.  Your  Granny  won't  object  to 
that,  I  know.  Now  here's  Mr.  Granville  going  to  play 
Turpin,  Mother  Bunch.     What  have  you  got  for  him?" 

As  a  result  of  the  investigation  that  followed  Pippin 
found  himself  the  owner  of  a  riding  suit  of  dark  green,  a 
three-cornered  hat  to  match,  a  brown  wig  with  a  black 
ribbon,  and  a  pair  of  high  boots  with  plated  spurs,  and 
retired  to  Maddock's  van  to  try  them  on.  He  could  not 
help  being  pleased  with  his  appearance  as  he  stood  up  in 
them,  and  Maddock  said  that  with  a  little  alteration  of  the 
coat,  and  a  lace  tie  and  ruffles,  he  would  look  as  hand- 
some a  Dick  Turpin  as  had  ever  ridden  the  ring. 

There  was  a  halt  at  midday  and  he  and  Maddock 
lunched  together.     "Where  am  I  to  sleep?"  asked  Pippin. 

"I'll  give  you  a  shake  down  here  to-night,"  said  Mad- 
dock. "I'm  having  Brown's  van  thoroughly  cleaned  out — 
poor  fellow !    I  want  to  use  it  partly  as  an  office,  but,  bar 


178  nrriN 

that,  you  can  have  it  for  yourself.  There'll  be  plenty  of 
room,  and  you  will  be  more  comfortable  there  than  chum- 
ming in  with  somebody  else.  You  can  feed  with  me. 
We  shall  get  on  vi  rv  well  together,  I'm  sure,  and  we  have 
plenty  of  tastes  in  common." 

These  dispositions  for  his  welfare  pleased  Pippin. 
Maddock  was  treating  him  very  well.  He  had  offered  him 
a  salary,  which  was  not  very  big,  but  seemed  to  him  hand- 
some, considering  that  his  expenses  would  be  nil;  and,  if 
he  "suited,"  more  was  to  be  paid  to  him  after  a  month. 
And  it  would  be  good  to  have  his  quarters  to  himself, 
especially  such  fascinating  ones.  Everything  smiled  on 
him,  and  he  set  himself  arduously  to  learn  his  part, 
sitting  alone  in  Muddock's  van,  which  swung  on  steadily 
during  the  afternoon  between  the  fields  and  hedgerows. 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE    FIRST    HALT 


The  Circus  halted  for  the  night  on  the  outskirts  of  a 
large  village.  Haddock's  agent  had  hired  a  grass  field 
from  a  farmer,  and  there  the  caravans  were  ranged  in  a 
row  as  before,  and  the  tents  for  the  horses  and  for  the 
attendants  were  set  up  in  an  orderly  camp.  Maddock 
was  a  skilful  general.  Everything  was  done  on  an  ar- 
ranged plan.  Every  one  had  certain  duties  to  perform, 
and,  camping  as  they  did  on  new  ground  most  nights  of 
the  year,  there  was  as  little  friction  as  might  be.  At  five 
o'clock  the  front  of  the  procession  filed  into  the  field ;  at 
six  there  was  a  little  hamlet  of  tents  and  vans,  which 
might  have  been  there  for  a  month  past,  and  all  that  re- 
mained for  its  occupants  to  do  was  to  procure  provisions 
for  the  evening  and  the  next  morning. 

Pippin,  whose  mental  labours  were  over  for  the  time 
being,  lent  a  hand  with  the  horses,  which  were  stabled  in 
long  tents  already  put  up  by  the  advance  party.  He 
found  Black  Bess  with  the  rest,  and  the  man  who  was  in 
charge  of  her  said  that  she  didn't  seem  to  take  to  her 
feed.  Brown  had  always  fed  her  himself,  and  she  missed 
him. 

Pippin  went  up  to  her,  and  she  turned  her  beautiful  lean 
head  towards  him,  with  its  silky  restless  ears  and  deli- 
cately carved  nostrils,  and  in  her  eye  he  seemed  to  see  a 
question  that  she  could  not  utter.     Where  was  the  man 

whom  she  had  served  and  who  had  cherished  her  day  by 

179 


180  PITPIN 

day  for  so  long,  and  what  was  he,  a  stranger,  doing  there 
in  his  place?  He  fondled  her  and  Bpoke  gently  to  her, 
and  she  nosed  him  and  Beemed  half  satisfied  that  he  meant 
her  well.  He  told  the  stahleman  that  he  was  to  take 
Brown's  place  for  the  present  and  that  he  would  look 
after  the  mare  as  Brown  had  done. 

"What,  you  !"  said  the  groom,  looking  at  him.     "What 
about  the  other,  then?" 

"What  other?"  asked  Pippin. 

"Why,   him    as    was   to    have   had   the  job   when   poor 
Brown  got  past  it?" 

"I  don't  knoAv  anything  about  that,"  said  Pippin. 
"Who  was  to  have  had  it?" 

"Oh,  it's  none  of  my  business,"  said  the  man,  moving 
off.     "You'll  find  out." 

Pippin  was  a  little  disturbed  at  this,  although,  when 
he  thought  of  it,  it  was  plain  that  some  provision  must 
have  been  made  for  such  a  contingency  as  had  occurred, 
and  that  his  having  dropped  from  the  clouds  at  the  right 
moment  would  be  to  the  disappointment  of  some  one  who 
might  have  hoped  for  the  reversion  of  Brown's  part.  He 
thought  that  Maddock  might  have  warned  him  of  this. 
He  had  started  with  the  circus  on  bad  terms  with  the  lion- 
tamer,  and  apparently  with  his  daughter,  and  he  did  not 
want  to  have  another  enemy  to  deal  with. 

As  he  went  out  of  the  tent  where  the  horses  were  stabled 
he  met  the  young  man  Smithers,  otherwise  Signor  Frangi- 
nelli,  who,  with  a  companion,  both  carrying  big  jugs,  were 
going  off  to  the  village  to  get  the  material  for  their  even- 
ing refreshment.  Smithers  had  been  friendly  the  night 
before  when  he  had  gone  round  the  camp  to  get  milk  for 
the  dying  man,  but  now,  when  he  caught  sight  of  Pippin, 


THE    FIRST    HALT  181 

he  stuck  a  thumb  in  the  armhole  of  his  waistcoat,  threw 
back  his  head,  and  changed  his  walk  to  a  strut.  "Oh, 
here's  me  lord,"  he  said.  "Been  to  look  at  his  hunters  in 
the  stable,  by  jove!  Haw!"  The  last  expression  repre- 
sented a  clearing  of  the  throat,  as  it  were,  by  a  man  of 
high  station. 

Pippin  realized  at  once  that  Smithers  was  the  man  he 
had  unwittingly  displaced,  and  that  he  felt  sore  about  it. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  he  said.  "We  were  very 
good  friends  last  night,  I  thought." 

Smithers  took  off  his  cloth  cap  with  a  sweep,  and  bowed 
low.  "Oh,  no,  me  lord,"  he  said  in  a  tone  of  withering 
humility.  "It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  a  fine  gentleman 
like  you  should  make  friends  with  an  individual  so  far 
beneath  you  as  your  humble.  But  allow  me  to  thank  you 
for  the  condescension  all  the  same,  rat  you !"  He  ended 
with  sharp  vehemence,  and  glared  at  Pippin  out  of  a  pair 
of  faint  brown  eyes  with  great  ferocity.  His  straw- 
coloured  hair,  which  had  been  crimped  and  frizzed  out  for 
the  purposes  of  his  share  in  the  entertainment,  hung  limply 
over  a  narrow  brow,  and  a  somewhat  receding  chin  dimin- 
ished the  effect  of  his  anger,  which,  however,  seemed  deep 
enough  to  cause  him  great  discomfort. 

"Come  on,  then,"  said  Pippin.  "Out  with  it!  What's 
the  trouble?" 

"Trouble!"  echoed  Smithers,  with  a  snort  of  derision. 
"What's  the  trouble?  Here's  an  individual  working  hard 
to  keep  himself,  and  getting  little  enough  pay  for  it,  and 
is  promised,  or  as  good  as,  a  step  up  when  another  indi- 
vidual is  past  his  work.  And  what  happens?  An  indi- 
vidual comes  ladida-ing  in  and  sneaks  his  job.  That's  the 
trouble,  me  lord,  and  now  you  know;  and  you  know  what 


182  PIP  TIN 

I  think  of  you,  and  it  isn't  as  much  as  you  think  of  your- 
self by  a  very  long  chalk,  and  that  it  isn't  either." 

"You  mean  you  were  to  have  taken  Brown's  place,"  said 
Pippin,  "and  I  have  got  it  instead." 

"Oh,  conic  on,  Jim,"  said  Smithcrs  to  his  friend. 
"What's  the  good  of  talking  to  the  fool?  I'll  he  even  with 
him  some  other  way."  And  lie  made  as  if  to  continue  an 
interrupted  journey. 

"Here,  wait  a  minute,"  said  Pippin,  planting  himself  in 
his  path.  "I'm  sorry  you  arc  disappointed,  hut  you 
mustn't  call  me  names,  you  know." 

"Ho,  mustn't  I,  me  lord?"  said  the  incensed  Smithers. 

"No,  Signor,"  replied  Pippin. 

"Ha  !  ha  !  very  funny  !  Very  funny  indeed  !  That's  the 
trick  you  tried  on  with  old  Schwenck,  and  he  gave  you  a 
bat  on  the  head  for  it.  I'll  do  the  same  if  I  get  any  of 
your  lip ;  so  now  you  know." 

"No,  I  don't  know,"  said  Pippin,  beginning  to  get  an- 
noyed.   "But  you  can  try  it  on  now  if  you  like." 

They  stood  glaring  at  one  another,  two  very  young  men 
both  ready  for  a  quarrel,  Smithers  the  more  angry  of  the 
two,  Pippin  the  more  ready  for  the  possible  result  of  his 
anger.  Smithers'  companion  thought  it  time  to  inter- 
vene. He  was  a  stocky  little  man  with  a  good-natured 
face.  "Well,  I  suppose  you  ain't  going  to  fight  it  out 
now,"  he  said.     "I  want  my  beer." 

"Go  and  get  your  beer,  then,"  said  Pippin,  stepping 
inside,  "and  don't  speak  to  me  like  that  again." 

What  reply  the  angry  Smithers  might  have  made  was 
cut  short  by  the  appearance  of  Miss  Rosie  Schwenck,  who 
had  been  watching  the  passage  from  the  platform  of  her  fa- 
ther's   van,    and    now    strolled    unconcernedly    across    the 


THE    FIRST    HALT  183 

grass  towards  them.  She  was  behind  Pippin,  and  he  was 
first  aware  of  her  presence  when  she  said  in  her  clear  cool 
voice:  "You  mustn't  hurt  Captain  Glanville,  Smithers. 
He  will  tell  Maddock  if  you  do  anything  to  him." 

Pippin  turned  round,  his  face  aflame.  The  girl  had 
made  an  impression  on  him,  and  her  scorn  was  harder 
to  bear.  And  he  was  very  young.  "He  is  not  going 
to  hurt  me,"  he  said.  "It  will  be  the  other  way  about, 
if  he  doesn't  mend  his  manners." 

"Oh,  will  it?"  exclaimed  Smithers  rhetorically,  and 
Rosie  Schwenck  said :  "We  shan't  come  to  you  for  a 
lesson  in  manners.  Come  along,  Smithers,  I  am  going 
for  a  little  walk,  and  you  and  Fraddle  can  come  with 
me  if  you  like." 

She  moved  off,  apparently  quite  sure  of  being  fol- 
lowed, and  Smithers  and  his  friend  followed  her,  leaving 
Pippin  by  himself,  angry,  but  not  knowing  in  the  least 
how  he  could  overcome  the  prejudice  against  him. 

It  was  small  balm  to  his  wounded  spirit  to  see  the 
grinning  face  of  Bogle  advancing  towards  him.  He  was 
accompanied  by  a  little  girl,  the  daughter  of  Joey  the 
clown,  and  carried  a  big  white  jug.  He  poured  out  a 
flood  of  his  apparently  meaningless  bogle  googles,  as 
he  came  up  to  Pippin,  grinning  all  the  while,  in  great 
good  humour. 

"He  says,"  said  the  little  girl,  "that  he  is  not  to  go 
into  the  lion's  cage  any  more,  and  he  is  very  glad  of  it." 

"I  am  very  glad  too,"  said  Pippin.  "Where  are  you 
both  going?" 

"Bogle,  google,"  said  the  simpleton  repeatedly. 

"We  are  going  to  get  milk  and  eggs,"  said  the  child, 
and  he  wants  you  to  come  with  us.     He  likes  you." 


a 


184.  PIPPIN 

So  Pippin  went  with  them  out  of  the  field  and  through 
the  farm  steading.  "Do  you  understand  everything  he 
Bays?"  asked    Pippin  of  the  child. 

"Of  course,"  she  replied  loftily.  "I  take  care  of  him. 
His  name  is  Will  Goldflake.  He  doesn't  like  to  be  called 
Bogle,  so  please  remember." 

"I  will  remember,"  said  Pippin.  "Did  he  tell  you  that 
his  name  was  Will  Goldflake?" 

"Of  course  he  did,  or  I  couldn't  have  known.  It  was 
on  a  tobacco  tin." 

Pippin  was  left  to  make  what  he  could  of  this  informa- 
tion. "My  father,"  said  the  child,  "says  that  he  has 
an  immortal  soul.  You  are  glad  of  that,  aren't  you, 
Will  Goldflake?" 

The  simpleton  made  reply  in  his  own  language,  and 
the  child  said :  "When  my  father  talks  to  him  he  always 
gives  him  something  to  eat  afterwards.  He  is  generally 
hungry.  He  wants  to  know  if  he  can  come  to  our  van 
this  evening.  Yes,  Will  Goldflake,  you  may  come  if  you 
sit  quiet  and  listen  to  father.  Perhaps  you  will  find  salva- 
tion. Have  you  found  salvation  yet?"  she  asked,  turn- 
ing her  large  eyes  on  Pippin,  who  was  so  taken  aback 
by  this  question  that  he  could  find  no  reply. 

But  she  did  not  wait  for  one.  "They  call  my  father 
Chaplain  Joey,"  she  said.  "He  is  a  very  good  man. 
I  know  that,  although  he  says  he  is  the  chief  of  sinners. 
He  generally  preaches  on  Sundays.  You  must  come 
and  hear  him." 

Pippin  promised  to  do  so,  wondering  what  strange 
thing  he  should  hear  next  of  the  people  of  the  circus. 
They  got  their  jug  filled  at  the  door  of  the  farm-house 


THE    FIRST    HALT  185 

and  the  little  girl  paid  for  the  milk  with  coppers,  and 
asked  if  she  could  buy  some  eggs. 

"Lor  bless  you !"  said  the  farmer's  wife,  beaming  at 
her,  her  arms  akimbo.  "Your  people  have  cleared  me 
out.  Why  didn't  you  come  earlier,  my  dear?  You're 
a  pretty  little  thing  now,  and  what  might  you  do  in 
the  circus?" 

"I  ride  on  a  pony,"  said  the  little  girl.  "But  if  you 
haven't  any  eggs  could  you  direct  me  where  to  get  them? 
Mother  wants  to  make  a  pudding." 

The  farmer's  wife  laughed.  "If  that  is  all,"  she  said. 
"I  daresay  I  can  oblige  you,  and  perhaps  two  or  three 
new-laid  ones  besides,"  and  she  went  in  and  brought  out 
a  basketful. 

The  little  girl  thanked  her  gravely,  paid  what  she  was 
asked  and  handed  the  woman  a  printed  tract.  "My 
father  says  will  you  oblige  him  by  reading  that  and  think- 
ing it  over?"  she  said. 

"Lor'  bless  my  soul !"  exclaimed  the  woman,  taking 
the  tract,  which  was  entitled  "Thou  Shalt  Do  No  Mur- 
der," and  the  little  girl  moved  away,  followed  by  Pippin 
and  Will  Goldflake,  who  carried  the  jug  of  milk  carefully 
and  gloated  over  it. 

On  the  way  back  the  little  girl  showed  some  mundane 
curiosity  concerning  Pippin's  future.  "Is  it  true  that 
you  are  going  to  take  Mr.  Brown's  place?"  she  asked 
him,  and  expressed  herself  pleased  to  hear  that  he  was. 
"I  like  you,"  she  said,  looking  straight  at  him  out  of 
her  big  serious  eyes.  "You  have  been  kind  to  Will  Gold- 
flake.  And  he  likes  you  too.  He  said  so.  But  you 
mustn't  let  the  gaudy  trappings  of  the  circus  lead  you 
astray.     Father  says  that  that  is  the  danger  of  our  life, 


186  PIPPIN 

and  that  if  he  catches  us  at  it — me  and  Sophie — he'll 
wallop  us  well.  He  thinks  Mr.  Brown  has  gone  to 
heaven,  but  he's  not  sure.  You  would  like  father.  Will 
you  come  and  see  him  now?  He  would  like  to  have  a 
straight  talk  witli  you,  I'm  sure." 

Pippin  accepted  this  invitation,  so  far  as  to  stand  out- 
side the  clown's  van  while  the  little  girl  took  the  milk 
and  the  eggs  from  Will  Goldflakc  and  went  inside. 

The  clown  came  out.  He  did  not  look  in  the  least  like 
a  clown  now.  He  was  a  solemn  little  man  with  a  wrinkled 
face,  and  was  dressed  in  an  old  suit  of  a  nondescript 
colour,  not  very  clean.  He  shook  hands  with  Pippin  and 
called  him  "brother,"  asking  him  if  be  was  a  Christian, 
to  which  Pippin  replied  that  he  hoped  he  was. 

"Ah,"  said  the  clown,  "you  may  well  say  that.  It's  a 
blessed  thing  to  be  certain  of  your  calling  and  election. 
Let  us  walk  up  and  down  on  the  grass  and  talk  together." 

Pippin  was  a  little  nervous  at  this  invitation,  but  Chap- 
lain Joey  seemed  only  to  want  a  hearer,  and  began  to 
talk  at  once. 

"People  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  "that  it  is  impossible 
to  lead  the  life  I  am  doing  and  keep  your  religion.  I 
hope  I  know  better.  I  consider  myself  called  to  keep 
the  light  burning  in  this  circus  just  as  much  as  if  I  was 
to  settle  down  and  preach  in  a  chapel.  Thanks  to  me, 
sinner  as  I  am,  there  is  less  to  complain  of  in  the  way 
of  loose  behaviour  in  this  company  than  in  any  on  the 
road ;  and  I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  for  before 
I  was  converted  I  went  with  several,  and  was  as  bad  as 
anybody — in  fact  worse,  for  I  had  had  the  benefit  of  a 
godly  home,  and  they  hadn't.  Oh,  I  assure  you  I  was 
&  very  great  sinner.     It  was  a  great  triumph  when  they 


THE   FIRST    HALT  187 

got  hold  of  me.  I  dare  say  you  have  seen  my  name  now, 
billed  for  meetings." 

"No,"  said  Pippin. 

"Oh!"  said  the  clown,  evidently  disappointed.  "I  am 
pretty  well  known.  'Joey,  the  Converted  Clown.'  Are 
you  sure  you've  never  heard  of  me?" 

"Never,"  said  Pippin. 

"Well,  perhaps  you  haven't  been  about  the  world  much. 
I'm  a  great  draw.  I  tell  them  all  about  my  past  life. 
You  could  hear  a  pin  drop.  There  will  be  a  meeting  in 
the  town  where  we  stop  next  week.  I  will  get  you  a 
ticket  for  the  platform." 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Pippin.  "I  don't  want  to  hear 
about  your  past  life.  If  it  was  as  bad  as  you  say,  you 
might  keep  it  to  yourself  for  the  sake  of  your  children." 

"Eh?"  said  the  clown,  greatly  astonished. 

"If 'you  have  so  much  to  be  ashamed  of,"  said  Pippin, 
"I  should  keep  quiet  about  it  if  I  were  you." 

"Ashamed  of!"  echoed  the  clown.  "What  do  you 
mean?     I've  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of." 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  then.  I  thought  you  said 
you  had." 

"I  said  I  had  been  a  very  great  sinner.  That  is  quite 
a  different  thing.  Young  man,  I  am  afraid  I  was  mis- 
taken in  you.     I  thought  you  had  found  the  truth." 

"Well,  I  am  afraid  I  was  mistaken  in  you,"  retorted 
Pippin.  "I  don't  understand  the  things  you  talk  about  so 
glibly.  So  I'll  wish  you  good  evening."  He  swung  off 
indignantly.  Like  all  honest  youths  he  hated  a  humbug, 
and  thought  he  had  found  one  here.  But  no  man  is  alto- 
gether a  hypocrite,  just  as  no  man  is  altogether  a  saint. 
Maddock,  of  whom  he  made  enquiries  concerning  Chap- 


188  PIPPIN 

lain  Joey  as  they  supped  together  gave  him  a  fair  char- 
acter. 

"He's  all  right,"  he  said,  "and  always  was.  Before 
he  took  to  the  preaching  line  I  daresay  he  used  to 
drink  a  pint  of  beer  sometimes  and  now  he  drinks  none. 
And  he  may  have  dropped  a  mild  oath  occasionally, 
same  as  the  rest  of  us,  without  meaning  much  by  it. 
'Course,  when  you  get  on  to  a  platform  or  into  a  pulpit 
you've  got  to  turn  that  into  hard  drinking  and  hard  swear- 
ing, or  nobody'll  think  anything  of  you.  He  gets  more 
excitement  out  of  his  preaching  now  than  ever  he  did  out 
of  what  he  calls  his  life  of  sin,  and  he  gets  what  most 
people  want  to  keep  them  going,  over  and  above  their 
work;  he  gets  consideration." 

"Consideration !"  repeated  Pippin,  not  quite  under- 
standing. 

"You  won't  meet  many  people,"  said  Maddoek,  "who 
don't  want  to  be  a  little  different  from  everybody  else — 
looked  up  to — thought  something  of.  It's  a  natural 
weakness.  I  was  thinking  over  it  the  other  day  when 
I  was  shaving.  I  suppose  you  might  say  it's  the  dignity 
of  human  nature  asserting  itself.  You  will  hear  people 
say  what  an  unaccountable  thing  it  is  that  poor  people 
spend  such  a  lot  of  money  and  make  so  much  fuss  over 
a  funeral.  I  don't  think  it's  an  unaccountable  thing 
at  all.  Death  is  always  touching  us,  but  we  never  get 
used  to  it.  It's  a  very  big  thing.  It  does  give  dignity, 
and  when  it  comes  their  way  they  make  the  most  of  it. 
A  man  will  pride  himself  on  being  well,  or  on  getting 
up  early  in  the  morning,  or  on  having  more  hair  than 
other  people,  or  on  having  a  great  deal  less.  There's 
nothing  hi-  won't   pride  himself  on,  as  long  as  it  makes 


THE    FIRST    HALT  189 

him  a  little  different  from  the  rest.  If  Chaplain  Joey 
were  a  first-class  clown  he  might  be  content  with  that, 
for  people  love  a  good  clown.  But  he  isn't,  so  he's  got 
to  be  something  else  besides,  and  as  far  as  I'm  concerned 
he's  worth  more  to  me  as  he  is  than  if  he  showed  up  better 
in  the  ring.     And  I  don't  have  to  pay  him  so  much." 

Maddock  laughed,  as  if  to  show  that  his  cynicism  was 
only  half  sincere. 

"I  thought  he  wasn't  bad  in  the  ring,"  said  Pippin. 

"No,  he  isn't  bad.  But  there  are  thousands  of  people 
who  aren't  bad  at  anything.  If  they  get  a  job  they'll 
do  it  as  well  as  the  next  man,  but  they  don't  do  it  so 
well  that  you've  got  to  give  it  'em.  That's  the  difference 
between  a  first-class  man  and  a  second-class  man,  and  I 
don't  care  whether  he's  a  clown  or  a  cabinet  minister." 

"He  says  that  it  is  owing  to  him  that  this  circus  is  so 
much  better  behaved  than  any  other,"  said  Pippin. 

"Oh,  does  he?  Well,  he's  welcome  to  the  opinion.  I've 
got  an  idea  that  I've  something  to  do  with  it  myself. 
But,  I'll  tell  you  what,  the  women  have  a  great  deal 
more  to  do  with  it  than  either  of  us.  Mrs.  Pringle — 
Chaplain  Joey's  wife,  for  instance — now,  there's  a  good 
woman.  Puts  up  with  her  husband's  nonsense — well,  I 
call  it  nonsense,  though  I  wouldn't  say  a  word  against, 
religion — and  just  goes  her  own  way.  Keeps  her  own 
children  neat  and  clean  and  well-behaved,  and  gives  an 
eye  to  the  girls  who  are  here  on  their  own.  So  does  Mr. 
Polder — you  know,  the  Polder  Troupe  of  Acrobats.  So 
did  poor  Mrs.  Brown.  Funny  thing!  Women  cling  to 
respectability,  if  you  give  'em  the  chance ;  and  I  do  give 
'em  a  chance  here.  They  are  a  lot  better  housed  than 
any  others   of  their  kind  I've  ever  come  across,   and  it 


190  PITPIN 

would  surprise  you  the  number  of  applicants  I  have  from 
other  shows  to  join  ours.  I'm  a  respectable  man  myself, 
and  I  wouldn't  allow  the  things  that  go  on  in  some  travel- 
ling shows.  It  pays  too.  Maddock's  Circus  has  a  good 
reputation  all  over  the  country.  I  get  chaffed  about  it 
sometimes.  Bamfield,  where  I  served  apprentice,  and  has 
the  only  other  travelling  circus  that  counts,  puts  it  about 
that  we  always  open  with  family  prayer,  on  horseback. 
Well,  I  shouldn't  want  to  make  any  difference  in  the 
entertainment  if  we  did." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

PIPPIN    PLAYS   HIS   PART 

The  evening  came  on  which  Pippin  made  his  first  appear- 
ance in  the  ring.  During  the  earlier  part  of  the  enter- 
tainment he  was  in  the  tent  which  was  joined  on  to  the 
larger  one,  and  lent  a  hand  with  the  horses  as  they  passed 
in  and  out.  One  by  one  the  performers  arrived,  dressed 
for  their  parts,  their  private  characteristics  a  little  ob- 
scured by  their  costumes,  and  thrown  off  altogether  as  they 
passed  through  the  curtains  and  faced  their  audience. 

They  were  performing  in  a  big  town.  The  tent  was 
quite  full,  and  the  people  who  crowded  it  more  than 
usually  enthusiastic.  Eve^'thing  went  to  a  roar  of  ap- 
plause, and  the  performers  came  out  after  their  turns 
flushed  with  success.  Each  thought  of  himself  or  herself, 
and  was  ready  to  go  to  any  labour  of  invention  or  practice 
to  rise  in  so  agreeable  a  calling  and  earn  still  more  of  those 
intoxicating  plaudits.  Maddock  knew  well  enough  how  to 
take  advantage  of  this  spirit  of  encouragement  and  emu- 
lation. He  was  unsparing  of  words  of  commendation  and 
pattings  on  the  back,  and  came  hurriedly  into  the  tent 
time  after  time,  when  he  usually  stayed  in  the  ring  between 
the  turns,  to  show  to  one  or  another  that  he  shared  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  audience.  He  would  lead  a  performer 
into  the  ring  to  receive  a  renewed  ovation,  and  to  many 
of  his  troupe  that  evening  did  he  confide  his  conviction 
that  with  such  abilities  and  more  diligent  endeavour  they 

would  go  far. 

191 


192  PIPPIN 

Signor  Franginelli-Smithers,  who  always  opened  the 
performance,  not  entirely  to  his  satisfaction,  for  people 
were  not  usually  wanned  up  to  appreciation  until  later, 
and  the  better  scats  not  yet  occupied,  was  warmly  ap- 
plauded this  evening,  and  took  to  himself  a  large  part  of 
the  credit  for  the  good  humour  in  which  the  audience  re- 
mained for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  "Give  'cm  a  good 
lead,"  he  said  to  his  friend  Fraddle,  when  he  was  resting 
from  his  labours  after  a  hearty  recall,  "and  you'll  keep 
'em  going  until  the  end."  He  passed  his  fingers  through 
his  crimped  and  frizzled  hair,  and  cast  a  glance  of  satis- 
faction around  him,  when  his  eyes  met  those  of  Pippin, 
who  was  standing  by.  "Unless  the  whole  show  is  spoiled 
by  the  amateurs,"  he  added  with  a  scowl. 

Pippin  let  this  go  by.  Nervousness  was  already  upon 
him,  and  he  had  no  mind  for  a  contest  with  Smithers  at 
the  moment. 

Kosie  Schwenk  came  into  the  tent  equipped  for  her  act. 
It  was  the  first  time  Pippin  had  seen  her  so  dressed  since 
the  first  evening,  and  his  heart  gave  a  little  jump.  She 
looked  every  inch  the  lady  of  quality  now,  haughty  and 
beautiful,  and  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes  off  her,  nor  his 
admiration  out  of  them.  She  met  his  look  and  turned 
away  scornfully,  and  he  experienced  a  sinking  sensation. 
But  he  was  a  youth  not  temperamentally  inclined  to  play 
the  humble  drooping  lover,  if  he  played  the  lover  at  all, 
and  as  her  horse  was  led  in,  not  in  the  quietest  of  moods, 
and  she  prepared  to  mount  it,  he  went  forward  to  give 
her  a  lift  into  the  saddle. 

So  did  Smithers,  and  it  was  Smithers  whose  assistance 
she  accepted,  while  Pippin,  who  had  been  pushed  aside  not 
too  gently,  stood  by  and  looked  on,  much  annoyed.     But 


PIPPIN    PLAYS    HIS    PART  193 

the  horse  fidgeted  and  sidled  away,  and  Smithers  was 
clumsy ;  and  presently  she  said  with  an  exclamation  of 
impatience:  "Oh,  what's  the  good  of  you?  Here,  Glan- 
ville,  let's  see  if  you  can  do  any  better." 

But  Pippin  stood  still  with  his  hands  behind  his  back. 
"You  chose  Smithers,"  he  said.  "You  had  better  stick  to 
him." 

Smithers  cast  upon  him  a  look  of  concentrated  rage. 
Rosie  Schwenk  eyed  him  in  haughty  but  genuine  surprise. 
She  was  not  used  to  having  her  favours  received  in  that 
way.  But  Fraddle  stepped  forward  and  made  a  stirrup 
of  his  hands.  She  mounted  with  a  spring  and  was  at 
home  in  the  saddle  at  once.  She  gathered  up  her  reins, 
and  looked  down  upon  Pippin  with  her  eyes  ablaze.  "If 
I  were  Smithers  I  would  give  you  a  good  hiding,"  she  said. 

"So  you  recommended  before,"  replied  Pippin,  "and  I 
say  again,  let  Smithers  try." 

It  looked  for  a  moment  as  if  Smithers  would  try.  He 
clenched  his  fist,  and  his  face  beneath  his  absurd  mop  of 
hair  was  scarlet.  But  at  that  moment  Maddock  came 
bustling  in  calling  for  the  Countess  di  Rimini,  and  when 
he  had  led  her  into  the  ring  Joey,  the  clown,  came  forward 
and  interfered  authoritatively.  He  was  dressed  in  a 
baggy  suit  of  white  calico  adorned  with  large  scarlet 
spots,  he  had  a  scarlet  triangle  painted  over  his  right 
eye,  and  the  rest  of  his  face,  except  his  lips  and  eyebrows, 
was  whitened.  "Oh,  my  young  brothers,"  he  said  earn- 
estly, holding  out  an  admonishing  hand,  "do  not  give  way 
to  these  angry  passions.  Make  it  up  now.  Be  friends. 
Let  us  live  in  peace." 

The  contrast  between  his  appearance  and  the  pious 
bleat  in  which  he  spoke  was  almost  too  much  for  Pippin. 


194.  PIPPIN 

He  turned  away  to  prevent  himself  from  laughing  out- 
right, and  Smithers  also  moved  away  with  whatever 
dignity  nature  had  vouchsafed  him. 

The  clown's  little  daughter  came  up  to  Pippin  with  her 
satellite,  Bogle,  and  an  older  sister,  and  offered  him  some 
sweets  out  of  a  bag. 

"Will  Goldflake  gave  me  these,"  she  said.  "He  had 
some  money  and  he  wanted  to  spend  all  of  it  on  sausages. 
But  I  told  him  he  must  not  be  greedy  and  had  better  spend 
half  of  it  on  sweets  for  me.  He  was  quite  agreeable. 
This  is  my  sister  Sophie.  I  have  told  her  about  you  and 
she  wishes  to  make  your  acquaintance." 

Pippin  shook  hands  with  Sophie,  who  was  about  a 
year  older  than  her  sister.  "How  do  you  think  we  look?" 
she  asked. 

Both  children  were  dressed  as  ladies  of  the  French 
Court,  as  that  dress  is  understood  in  circuses.  With  two 
other  little  girls,  and  four  little  boys  attired  as  courtiers, 
they  were  about  to  go  through  a  quadrille  mounted  on 
piebald  ponies. 

"I  think  you  look  charming,"  said  Pippin;  and  indeed 
they  were  very  pretty  little  girls  and  their  quaint  dresses 
suited  them. 

"Sophie!"  said  the  younger  sister  reproachfully.     "You 
must  not  ask  questions  like  that.     You  must   remember 
that  the  love  of  fine  clothes  is  a  snare  of  the  evil  one." 
"Oh,  bother  !''  said  Sophie. 

Pippin  went  to  array  himself  in  the  clothes  he  was  to 
wear  as  Dick  Turpin.  He  whistled  gaily  as  he  did  so  in 
the  privacy  of  his  van.  In  spite  of  the  scorn  of  Bosie 
Schwenck  and  the  hostility  of  Smithers,  the  circus  was  a 
delightful  playground,  and  he  was  lucky  to  find  himself  in 


PIPPIN    PLAYS    HIS    PART  195 

it.  The  clothes  he  was  putting  on  well  became  him,  and 
by  and  by  he  was  going  to  do  something  gallant  and  pic- 
turesque on  a  fine  horse  before  the  eyes  of  a  highly  ap- 
preciative audience. 

Presently  his  whistling  died  away.  Nervousness  came 
upon  him  again.  .Supposing  he  made  a  fool  of  himself ! 
It  was  just  as  likely  as  not.  He  more  than  half  repented 
of  his  audacity  in  taking  upon  himself  a  position  for 
which  nothing  in  his  previous  life  had  prepared  him,  and 
when  he  had  finished  his  toilet  and  left  his  van  for  the 
circus  tent  he  would  have  given  something  to  be  sitting 
quietly  at  home,  or  resting  at  an  inn  after  a  hard  day's 
tramp. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  tent  he  found  it  crowded  with 
the  performers  and  the  properties  for  the  second  part  of 
the  entertainment.  The  first  part  had  just  come  to  an 
end.  The  band  in  the  ring  was  playing  a  raucous  march, 
and  the  audience  was  singing  and  whistling  to  it  in  high 
good  humour. 

Maddock  was  here,  there  and  everywhere  giving  direc- 
tions. "Good  gracious,"  he  exclaimed  when  he  saw  Pip- 
pin. "The  show  begins  in  ten  minutes  and  you  are  not 
made  up.  You  can't  go  on  like  that ;  you  look  like  a 
yellow  ghost  in  this  light.  Here,  somebody  who  is  ready 
— Smithers — make  Mr.  Glanville  up,  there's  a  good  fel- 
low." 

But  Smithers  said  haughtily:  "Me  and  Mr.  Glanville 
are  not  on  speaking  terms,  Mr.  Maddock.  When  an  indi- 
vidual— " 

But  Maddock  interrupted  him  impatiently.  "Oh,  I 
haven't  time  to  listen  to  your  nonsense.  You're  the  rotten- 
est  performer  in  the  show  and  you  give  yourself  most  airs. 


196  PIPPIN 

Here,   Fraddle!     Are   you   on   speaking   terms   with  Mr. 
Glanville  by  any  chance?" 

Fraddle,  attired  to  represent  an  elderly  tollgate-keeper, 
grinned  all  over  his  round  good-natured  face.  "Come 
on,"  he  said  to  Pippin.  "I'll  soon  make  you  so  handsome 
you  won't  know  yourself.'* 

He  led  him  to  a  corner  of  the  tent  where  there  was  a 
trestle  table  covered  with  a  rather  dirty  white  cloth,  a 
looking-glass  behind  it,  and  an  assortment  of  grease  sticks 
and  other  articles  of  theatrical  make-up. 

"I  should  give  him  a  red  nose  if  I  were  you,"  was 
Smithers'  parting  shot,  and  Fraddle  laughed  as  he  settled 
his  victim  in  a  chair  and  tied  a  napkin  round  his  neck. 

"Don't  you  take  any  notice  of  Smithers,"  he  said  con- 
fidentially. "He's  a  bit  sore  at  being  passed  over.  But 
he'll  soon  come  round,  and  we  shall  all  be  drinking  and 
playing  cards  together  before  you  know  where  you  are." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  play  cards  or  anything 
else  with  Smithers,"  said  Pippin.      "I  don't  like  him." 

"Ah,  that's  where  you  make  a  mistake,"  said  Fraddle, 
taking  off  his  powdered  wig  and  setting  vigorously  to 
work  on  his  forehead  with  a  stick  of  grease  paint.  ''You 
should  try  to  like  everybody.     You'll  get  on  much  better." 

Pippin  being  reduced  to  silence  by  the  liberties  that 
were  being  taken  with  his  face,  Fraddle  proceeded  to  de- 
velop his  proposition  as  he  worked.  "Take  my  case,"  he 
said.  "I  like  everybody.  Can't  help  it.  Sometimes  I  try 
to  dislike  a  fellow — at  least  I  used  to — just  for  a  change, 
you  know.  But,  bless  you,  it's  no  use.  When  I  think 
I've  worked  myself  up  to  give  him  a  bat  over  the  bonnet 
if  he  sc  much  as  looks  my  way,  there's  a  something  in  him 
gets  over  me.     Perhaps  it's  something  he  says,  or  the  way 


PIPPIN    PLAYS   HIS    PART  197 

he  says  it,  or  a  look  in  his  eye,  or  the  way  he  takes  some- 
thing, and  I  can  no  more  help  liking  that  fellow  than  I 
can — well,  I'm  like  that.  I'm  all  water.  I  thought  I 
didn't  like  you  much  when  Smithers  came  in  and  said  you 
had  pouched  his  job;  but  I  feel  now  as  if  I  could  stand 
you  drinks  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  if  I  had  the  money. 
Whether  it's  your  freckles,  or  the  way  your  hair's  cut, 
or  the  way  your  ears  stick  out,  I  don't  know.  But  there 
it  is." 

During  a  free  moment  Pippin  managed  to  murmur  his 
acknowledgments  of  this  gratifying  state  of  feeling. 

"It's  a  gift,"  continued  Fraddle,  setting  to  work  again. 
"After  all,  it's  a  gift.  Look  at  my  history !  Son  of  a 
bricklayer — that's  what  I  am,  and  never  tried  to  hide  it. 
And  here  I  am — a  gentleman,  or  as  good  as,  if  you  don't 
look  too  close.  Why?  Because  I  always  liked  everybody 
from  the  beginning  of  the  chapter.  I'm  no  good,  you 
know.  Never  no  good  at  anything;  I  won't  deceive  you. 
At  school,  bottom  of  the  class.  Always.  Couldnt  learn. 
But  liked?  Oh,  bless  you,  yes — much  more  than  the 
sharper  ones.  Why?  Because  I  liked  him — the  master, 
you  know.  Couldn't  help  it,  though  the  rest  of  'em  said 
he  was  a  beast.  So  he  was ;  but  there  was  a  something 
about  him.  Taken  away  from  school  at  thirteen  and  sent 
to  wTork  in  a  baker's  shop.  Bread?  Lor!  the  pigs 
wouldn't  eat  it.  But  when  I  was  sacked  he  said  he'd  have 
adopted  me  if  he  hadn't  had  eleven  children  of  his  own — 
the  baker,  I  mean.  I  loved  that  man,  and  showed  it. 
Couldn't  help  it.  And  he  swore  at  me  proper  too.  Page 
boy  to  an  old  lady  after  that.  Temper!  Well,  I  was 
only  there  a  month,  but  I'd  been  there  longer  than  any  of 
'em  when  she  sacked  me.      She  had  to,  or  she  wouldn't  have 


198  PIPTIN 

had  a  plate  left  to  eat  off.  I  was  one  of  the  smashers, 
you  know;  no  good  at  domestic  service.  Hut  she  said  she 
was  sorry  to  lose  me  all  the  same.  Then  I  took  on  here. 
Saw  Maddock  poaching  birds'  eggs  and  helped  him  for  a 
whole  da}'.  Adored  the  man  before  the  end  of  it,  and  he 
couldn't  get  rid  of  me.  Been  here  ever  since.  Well,  there 
you  are,  young  Turpin.  I  must  say  you  do  look  a  tip- 
topper.  Handsomer  than  poor  Brown  by  a  long  chalk, 
and  there  was  a  nice  fellow  if  you  like.'* 

With  powdered  wig,  blackened  eyebrows,  and  brown 
and  red  paint  hiding  his  freckles,  Pippin's  appearance  was 
completely  altered,  and  he  stood  up  in  his  green  riding- 
dress,  with  the  ruffles  at  his  neck  and  wrists,  as  handsome 
a  young  man  as  ever  rode  the  ring.  He  looked  at  him- 
self in  the  glass  and  was  absurdly  pleased,  and  walked  out 
to  fetch  Black  Bess  with  a  healthy  swagger. 

As  he  led  the  mare  into  the  tent  the  women  and  girls 
of  the  circus  looked  at  him  with  admiration,  all  except 
Rosie  Schwenck,  who  turned  away  her  head.  Maddock,  in 
his  Sheriff's  costume,  looked  him  up  and  down.  "You'll 
do  very  well,"  he  said. 

Then  the  play  began.  Pippin  mounted  the  mare  and 
waited  for  his  cue,  his  heart  in  his  high  boots.  The  mare 
grew  restless,  curveting  all  about  the  tent,  and  as  he  was 
trying  to  calm  her  his  call  came.  He  galloped  into  the 
ring,  his  blood  warmed.  It  was  a  blaze  of  hot  light,  with 
hundreds  of  faces  tier  on  tier  all  around  it ;  and  then  a 
storm  of  shouting  and  cheering  and  clapping  broke  out 
and  continued  for  a  long  time.  Pippin  had  no  reason  to 
complain  of  his  first  reception. 

He  went  through  his  part,  the  spoken  word  as  well  as 
the  action,  far  better  than  he  could  have  anticipated,  and 


PIPPIN    PLAYS    HIS    PART  199 

was  constantly  applauded.  The  applause  indeed  went  a 
little  to  his  head,  and  it  was  like  wine  to  him  to  catch  a 
gleam  of  admiration  in  the  eyes  of  Rosie  Schwenck,  whom 
as  a  lady  of  fashion  travelling  by  coach  he  treated  with 
ornate  forbearance,  while  yet  his  avocation  impelled  him 
to  rob  her  of  all  the  valuables  she  carried.  But  he  re- 
turned them  to  her,  and  handed  her  back  into  the  coach 
with  an  elaborate  flourish,  which  in  his  exaltation  of  spirit 
was  a  trifle  over-acted,  and  caused  her  lip  to  curl.  And 
unfortunately  his  spur  caught  in  her  velvet  train,  which 
gave  her  the  opportunity  of  fixing  him  with  a  low-spoken 
opprobrious  epithet  during  the  progress  of  disentangle- 
ment. To  the  eyes  of  the  onlookers,  all  was  courtesy 
and  high-breeding  on  both  sides,  but  if  their  ears  had 
heard  the  exquisite  lady  of  quality  mutter,  "Clumsy  lout !" 
to  the  gallant  highwajmian,  they  might  have  wondered 
that  he  did  not  then  and  there  relieve  her  of  the  trinkets 
which  he  had  so  generously  restored  to  her. 

When  Pippin  and  his  horse,  and  the  coach  with  its  load 
of  despoiled  passengers,  were  outside  the  ring  and  the 
tent,  he  went  up  to  Rosie  Schwenck  and  looking  her  square 
in  the  face  said:  "I  am  very  sorry  for  that  accident,  and 
will  be  more  careful  another  time."  His  impulse  to  show 
resentment  of  her  rudeness  had  passed,  and  as  he  was 
ready  to  ignore  it  she  could  not  very  well  do  otherwise ; 
for  that  would  have  been  to  allow  in  him  a  courtesy  which 
was  not  in  her,  and  to  disclaim  the  gentility  which  she 
aped  before  the  public,  some  proportion  of  which  she 
also  affected  in  private  life. 

She  turned  from  him,  as  it  seemed,  in  some  confusion, 
but  without  saying  anything.  Smithers,  however,  who 
was  burning  with  resentment  at  having  to  take  the  craven 


200  PIPPIN 

part  of  the  lady's  husband,  and  cry  on  his  knees  for  mercy 
from  the  highwayman,  instead  of  ruffling  it  as  the  high- 
wayman himself,  said  with  much  truculence  that  lie  sup- 
posed Pippin  thought  himself  a  mighty  fine  fellow,  adding 
that  he  himself  thought  the  contrary,  and  that  he  had 
reason  to  know  that  Miss  Schwenck  was  of  his  opinion. 
"When  an  individual  pushes  himself  in  where  he  wi't 
wanted,"  said  Smithers  in  high  scorn  and  with  intense 
meaning,  "he  had  better  look  out  for  himself,  or  he'll  find 
himself  in  trouble." 

Smithers  tinned  his  back  and  went  off  to  array  himself 
for  the  sheriff's  dinner  party,  and  Pippin  understood, 
what  he  had  already  suspected,  that  Smithers  was  in  much 
the  same  state  as  himself  in  his  feelings  towards  Rosie 
Schwenk,  and  perhaps  with  more  to  go  upon  in  the  way 
of  memories,  since  he  had  known  her  for  a  long  time  and 
Pippin  knew  her  scarcely  at  all. 

Well,  if  it  were  only  to  get  the  better  of  a  rival,  there 
was  little  to  daunt  him,  but  something  rather  to  spur  him 
on.  But  he  did  not  feel  quite  comfortable  about  Smithers. 
With  the  quick  generosity  of  his  youth  he  was  ready  to 
admit  to  the  full  that  the  acute  annoyance  shown  by  the 
young  man  was  justified.  He  had  come  in  to  dispossess 
him  just  as  he  was  on  the  brink  of  glory,  and  if  Smithers 
counted  upon  the  high  part  he  was  to  have  played  to  ad- 
vance him  with  Rosie  Schwenk,  then  his  irritation  must 
have  been  greater  even  than  his  expression  of  it. 

Pippin  took  supper  that  evening  with  Maddock,  who 
congratulated  him  upon  his  performance,  and  told  him 
that  he  considered  himself  fortunate  in  having  him  to  fill 
Brown's  place.  "I  don't  look  to  you,"  he  said,  "to  stay 
with  me  for  ever,  for  although  I  suppose  you  come  from 


PIPPIN    PLAYS    HIS    PART  201 

much  the  same  sort  of  home  as  poor  Brown,  there  is  not 
the  same  reason  with  you  as  with  him  for  keeping  away 
from  it,  and  you  will  want  to  be  going  back  some  day. 
But  if  you  will  stay  for  the  summer,  and  give  me  time  to 
look  about  for  a  horseman  as  good  as  you  or  Brown,  it 
will  be  to  my  advantage  and  I  will  make  it  to  yours.  Now 
that  I  have  seen  you  in  the  ring  I  am  ready  to  pay  you 
the  same  as  I  paid  Brown,  but  I  suppose  that  the  payment 
will  be  less  to  you  than  the  opportunity  for  a  pleasant 
sort  of  roving  life ;  and  that  you  will  have  for  as  long  as 
you  like  to  stay  with  me." 

This  was  handsomely  said,  and  Pippin  thanked  him, 
but  said  that  he  had  understood  that  Smithers  was  to  have 
taken  Brown's  place  if  it  had  not  been  given  to  him,  and 
expressed  something  of  his  regret  at  having  ousted  him. 

"You  needn't  worry  yourself  about  that,"  said  Mad- 
dock  unconcernedly.  "Smithers  understudied  Brown,  as 
he  will  understudy  you,  but  I  have  never  told  him  that  he 
was  to  play  Turpin  permanently.  Smithers  thinks  him- 
self a  horseman,  but  he  is  only  a  circus-rider,  which  is  a 
very  different  thing,  and  he  is  not  even  a  very  good  circus- 
rider.  Smithers  may  think  himself  lucky  in  being  kept  on 
in  my  circus  at  all,  and  getting  the  pay  he  does.  If  you 
have  any  nonsense  from  Smithers,  tell  me,  and  I  will  put 
him  in  his  place." 

Pippin  was  not  quite  satisfied  with  this.  "I  can  fight 
my  own  battles,"  he  said ;  "but  haven't  you  allowed  Smith- 
ers to  think  that  he  was  to  step  into  Brown's  place?" 

"Perhaps  I  have,"  said  Maddock,  as  unconcernedly  as 
before.  "There  is  no  sense  in  upsetting  people  if  you 
want  to  make  use  of  them.  If  you  hadn't  come  on  the 
scene  just   at   the   right   moment,   Smithers   would   have 


202  r  i  p  r  i  n 

played  the  part  of  Turpin  until  I  could  have  got  some- 
body more  suitable;  and  I  should  have  lost  no  time  in 
(hung  so.     Smithers  has  nothing  to  grumble  at  whatever." 

Pippin  unit  to  sleep  that  night  with  his  head  buzzing, 
and  not  with  the  wine  he  had  been  given  at  supper,  of 
which  Maddock  had  drunk  the  larger  share.  The  lights 
were  in  his  eyes  again,  the  hot  scents  of  the  tent  and  the 
sawdust  in  his  nostrils,  and  the  roar  of  applause  in  his 
ears.  He  saw  himself  sitting  on  his  fine  horse,  taking  his 
great  leaps,  making  his  gallant  speeches.  He  saw  the 
kind  eyes  of  the  woman  fixed  on  him,  the  center  of  all  ad- 
miration. All  night  long  in  his  dreams  he  went  over  his 
performance,  and  awoke  in  the  morning  looking  forward 
to  its  repetition  with  the  keenest  pleasure. 

Well,  it  was  worth  while  to  have  left  his  home  for  this. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   CIRCUS 

In  his  pleasure  at  having  made  such  a  success  of  his  part, 
Pippin  was  all  the  more  inclined  to  forgive  Smithers  for 
the  ill-feeling  he  nourished  towards  him.  He  was  rather 
an  absurd  creature,  and  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  get 
the  better  of  him.  But  to  get  the  better  of  him  was  not 
likely  to  bring  much  satisfaction  with  it;  it  would  be 
better  to  win  him  over,  and  do  him  a  good  turn.  This 
was  within  Pippin's  power.  At  this  early  stage  he  was 
much  under  the  glamour  of  his  occupation ;  but  he  did  not 
propose  to  keep  at  it  forever,  and  when  the  time  came 
for  him  to  leave  it  would  heal  all  soreness  if  Smithers  took 
his  place. 

He  sought  out  the  good-natured  Fraddle.  "I  think  it 
is  rather  hard  on  Smithers  that  I  have  been  taken  on  as 
Dick  Turpin  instead  of  him,"  he  said.  "It  is  natural 
that  he  should  be  annoyed  with  me;  but  I  wish  him  no 
harm,  and  would  rather  be  friends  with  him  than  enemies."1 

Fraddle  beamed  all  over.  "That's  what  I  like  to  hear,'* 
he  said.  "You're  a  man  after  my  own  heart ;  I  knew  it  as 
soon  as  I  set  eyes  on  you.  Smithers  won't  hold  out 
against  you.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  we  will  do.  We'll 
go  down  to  the  'Fiddle  and  Pipe'  and  have  a  glass  to- 
gether. When  we  come  out  of  it  we  shall  be  like  three 
brothers." 

"Very  well,"  said  Pippin.     "But  you  must  let  me  pay 

for  the  entertainment.      Go  and  find  Smithers  and  tell  him 

203 


204  PIPPIN 

I  want  to  be  friends  with  him.  There's  no  need  to  make 
a  scene  about  it.  We'll  just  go  and  sit  together  for  a  bit, 
and  forget  all  about  what  has  happened." 

Put  simply  to  ignore  what  had  passed  did  not  comply 
with  Smithers'  histrionic  inclinations.  He  came  forward 
with  the  smiling  Fraddle,  wearing  an  air  of  high  dignity 
and  solemnity,  and  took  off  his  cap  to  Pippin.  "My 
friend  here  informs  me,"  he  said,  "that  certain  things 
that  have  passed  between  us  are — are — that  you  wish  they 
hadn't  passed.  When  an  individual  takes  that  line  with 
Alfred  Smithers,  Alfred  Smithers  would  not  be  the  man 
he  is  if— if— " 

"Oh,  come  along,"  said  Pippin.  "We're  going  to  have 
a  drink  and  a  talk  together.  I  have  something  to  propose 
to  you." 

Fraddle  took  his  arm  and  led  him  off.  He  was  inclined 
to  offence  at  having  had  his  speech  cut  short,  but  his  of- 
fence was  mixed  with  relief  at  not  having  to  carry  it  on  on 
a  note  as  high  as  his  desire,  and  when  he  found  himself 
seated  in  the  cosy  parlour  of  the  inn  with  a  tankard  in 
front  of  him  he  allowed  himself  to  relax  into  amiability. 
Pippin  was  obviously  of  a  higher  social  grade  than  him- 
self or  Fraddle,  and  his  move  towards  friendship  flattered 
Smithers,  always  doubtful  about  himself  in  spite  of  his 
vanity,  and  setting  great  store  by  any  degree  of  gentility. 

"I've  told  Fraddle,"  said  Pippin,  "that  I  sec  now  it  was 
hard  on  you  not  to  be  allowed  to  take  Brown's  place. 
I  ought  to  have  known,  when  Maddock  offered  it  to  me, 
that  there  must  have  been  somebody  else  disappointed  of 
it.  But  I  didn't  think  of  that.  However,  I  have  thought 
of  it  now,  and  what  I  want  to  tell  you  is  that  I  shan't  be 
going  with  this  circus  for  more  than  a  few  months  at  the 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    THE    CIRCUS      205 

outside,  and  I'll  do  all  I  can  to  get  Maddock  to  give  you 
the  part  of  Dick  Turpin  when  I  leave." 

"Now  I  call  that  very  handsome,"  said  Fraddle. 
"What  did  I  tell  you,  Smithers?  This  is  a  lad  you  may 
well  rely  on." 

"Well,  I  don't  deny  that  it's  kindly  thought  of,"  said 
Smithers.  "But  when  Glanville  leaves  us  I  shall  take  the 
part  anyhow.  Maddock  wouldn't  dare  pass  me  over  a 
second  time.  Maddock  is  an  individual  who  wants  watch- 
ing, but  he  knows  he  can't  go  too  far.  Alfred  Smithers 
can  put  up  with  a  good  deal,  and  Maddock  knows  it  and 
takes  advantage  of  it.  But  he  also  knows  that  if  he  tries 
it  on  beyond  reason  he'll  have  Alfred  Smithers  to  deal 
with." 

He  looked  very  fierce  and  proud,  and  Fraddle  said: 
"Yes,  no  doubt  it's  true  that  the  part  will  be  yours  when 
Granville  leaves.  Still  I  maintain  that  it's  like  the  man 
he  is  to  think  about  it." 

Pippin  saw  that  he  must  tell  them  everything.  "I 
shouldn't  have  made  the  offer  I  have,"  he  said,  "if  you 
were  going  to  step  into  the  part  with  no  trouble  taken 
about  it.  But  Maddock  has  no  intention  of  ffivinjr  it 
to  you  permanently,  and  never  had."  Then  he  told  them 
what  Maddock  had  said  on  the  subject. 

Smithers  expressed  his  sense  of  outrage  in  no  measured 
terms,  and  made  threats  against  Maddock  which  he  might 
have  carried  out  if  he  had  been  an  unlimited  monarch  and 
Maddock  one  of  his  minions,  but  hardly  under  existing 
circumstances.  Then  he  suddenly  passed  into  a  plaintive 
state,  and  asked  what  reason  Maddock  had  given  for 
treating  him  in  that  way. 

"Well,  he  says  you  can't  ride  well  enough,"  said  Pippin. 


208  PIPTIN 

Smithers'  indignation  renewed  itself  at  this  statement, 
ami  Fraddle  murmured  that  that  really  was  going  a  little 
too  far. 

"You  heard  how  I  was  clapped  and  cheered  only  last 
night,"  said  Smithers.  "I  don't  believe  there's  a  man  in 
the  country  can  turn  somersaults  off  a  platform  on  a  mov- 
ing horse  better  than  I  can,  and  I'll  say  that  to  Mad- 
dock's  face  and  dare  him  to  contradict  me." 

"Perhaps  he  wouldn't,"  said  Pippin.  "Maddock  says 
you're  a  good  circus-rider,  but  you're  no  horseman." 

Smithers  descended  into  the  depths  again.  "It's  true," 
he  said,  in  a  tone  of  resignation.  "But  I  didn't  know 
Maddock  had  noticed  it.  I  can  stand  on  a  horse  going 
round  in  a  ring,  if  he  doesn't  go  too  fast,  and  nobody  can 
say  I'm  not  graceful  when  I  do  it.  But  when  I'm  sitting 
in  a  saddle  it's  a  different  thing.  There's  no  grace  about 
me.  Oh,  I  know  it  well,  and  if  Maddock  knows  it  thea 
I  may  as  well  give  him  notice  before  he  gives  it  me." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Pippin.  "You  have  played  the 
part  on  occasions,  and  you  have  done  what  was  wanted. 
Black  Bess  is  a  beauty  to  jump,  but  it  takes  some  pluck 
to  go  over  some  of  those  fences,  and  you  have  done  that 
and  are  ready  to  do  it  again." 

"Oh,  nobody  can  say  I  haven't  got  the  pluck,"  said 
Smithers,  picking  up  again.  "Even  Maddock  wouldn't 
say  that.  I  should  like  to  hear  him  if  he  did.  He 
wouldn't  say  it  twice  to  my  face." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Pippin.  "All  you  want  is  a 
little  horsemanship,  and  that's  easily  learned  if  you  like 
horses  and  put  your  mind  into  it.  Now  I  was  brought 
up  among  horses.  I  believe  I  rode  before  I  could  walk, 
and  I've  been  riding  all  sorts  ever  since.      I  can  give  you 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    THE    CIRCUS      207 

a  hint  or  two,  and  shall  be  glad  to  do  it.  It  was  what  was 
in  my  mind  when  I  made  the  offer.  Let's  go  out  together, 
and  I'll  teach  you  what  I  can.  When  the  time  comes 
you'll  surprise  Maddock  by  what  you  can  do.  It's  not 
much  that's  wanted.  You're  a  far  better  actor  than  I 
am,  and  you'll  look  the  part  all  right." 

Smithers  gracefully  disclaimed  superiority  in  acting, 
but  it  was  evident  that  he  thought  Pippin's  tribute  de- 
served. "I  can't  help  throwing  myself  into  a  part,"  he 
said.  "When  I  get  before  an  audience  it's  like  as  if  I  was 
outside  myself.    I  suppose  it's  what  they  call  genius." 

"That's  what  it  is,"  said  Fraddle  encouragingly.  "I 
haven't  got  it  myself,  but  I  know  it  when  I  see  it.  Well, 
it's  a  great  thing  that  you  two  are  friends  now.  That's 
what  makes  me  happy,  to  see  everybody  friends  together. 
Here's  a  health  to  both  of  you.  I've  known  you,  Smith- 
ers, for  some  years,  and  a  better  fellow  never  stepped,  and 
I  may  say  the  same  of  Glanville,  though  I've  only  known 
him  a  few  days." 

Pippin  and  Smithers  went  out  riding  together  early  in 
the  mornings,  unknown  to  Maddock,  who  would  have  ob- 
jected to  having  his  horses  taken  out  in  that  way.  Smith- 
ers sat  in  his  saddle  like  a  sack,  and  by  the  side  of  Pippin, 
who  was  all  ease  and  alertness,  looked  like  a  tripper  on  a 
hired  nag.  But  his  adaptability  enabled  him  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  instruction  offered  him.  He  had  no  hands 
for  a  horse,  and  his  seat  was  never  the  same  two  minutes 
running;  but  somehow  he  managed  to  imitate  good  horse- 
manship for  the  short  bursts  of  action  which  were  all 
that  was  necessary  in  the  ring.  It  was  true  that  he  was 
an  actor  born,  though  his  light  composition  made  his  art 
a  small  thing.      Pippin  was  surprised  to  find  out  what  he 


208  P I  p  r  I N 

could  do,  after  learning  by  experience  what  he  couldn't 
be  taught  to  do.  After  a  week  or  two  he  made  an  ex- 
cuse of  some  light  ailment,  which  he  exaggerated  on  pur- 
pose, to  give  Smithera  Hie  opportunity  of  playing  his 
part.  Maddock  grumbled  hugely,  and  for  the  first  time 
showed  Pippin  the  disagreeable  side  of  him.  But  after 
the  performance  it  was  as  if  he  had  no  such  side.  He 
said  that  Smithers  had  done  better  than  he  had  expected, 
and  that  when  the  time  came  he  should  probably  give  him 
the  part,  and  look  out  for  another  man  to  deal  with  his 
horses  for  him. 

When  Smithers  was  told  this  he  assumed  at  once  an  air 
of  high  self-confidence,  and  said  that  it  was  well  for  Mad- 
dock  that  he  had  come  to  his  senses,  hinting  that  he  would 
greatly  have  rued  it  if  he  had  not. 

Pippin  smiled  at  him.  "I  suppose  I  have  had  nothing 
to  do  with  it,"  he  said. 

Smithers,  still  in  the  exaltation  of  success,  looked  sur- 
prise at  him,  and  then  descended  from  his  pedestal.  Tears 
of  emotion  came  into  his  eyes,  he  grasped  Pippin's  hand, 
and  said  fervently :  "You  are  the  best  friend  I  ever  had." 

The  story  of  what  Pippin  had  done  for  Smithers  got 
about  among  the  people  of  the  circus,  and  he  was  given 
much  credit  for  it.  They  all  liked  him,  except  Schwcnck, 
the  lion-tamer,  and  apparently  his  daughter,  llosie, 
neither  of  whom  would  have  anything  to  do  with  him, 
ami  possibly  Joey,  the  clown,  who  may  have  suspected 
him  of  making  light  of  his  religious  pretensions.  He  had 
a  pleasant  friendly  way  with  everybody,  and,  being  less 
occupied  than  most,  often  lent  a  hand  of  help  to  others. 

This  was  a  little  world  of  its  own  in  which  he  made 
himself  at   home,   and   one  in  which  there  was   as    much 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    THE    CIRCUS      209 

variety  of  character  and  temperament  as  in  any  other. 
Vanity  and  jealousy  were  rife  in  it,  but  there  were  many 
who  were  free  from  either  fault,  and  there  was  much 
kindness  among  these  people  of  show  and  tinsel.  Mad- 
dock's  boast  of  a  good  moral  tone  among  his  people  had 
something  to  justify  it,  but  its  centre  was  not  in  him, 
though  he  encouraged  it  and  made  some  capital  out  of 
it.  Neither  was  it  in  Joey  the  Converted  Clown.  Chap- 
lain Joey,  he  liked  to  hear  himself  called,  and  would  have 
it  that  he  was  doing  a  great  work  among  the  people  of 
the  circus.  But  he  was  treated  with  indulgence  as  an 
eccentric  rather  than  looked  up  to,  and  had  scarcely  any 
followers  outside  his  own  family.  There  was  as  much 
self-approbation  in  his  preachings  as  in  the  posturings 
of  Smithers  under  his  style  of  the  Signor  Franginelli. 
He  showed  an  ugly  spiteful  temper  if  anything  happened 
to  cross  him,  and  it  had  been  noticed  that  this  weakness 
was  not  one  of  those  which  he  so  fervently  confessed  in 
public. 

It  was  his  cheerful  little  wife,  who  looked  up  to  him 
as  a  good  and  wise  man,  and  suffered  his  disagreeable 
way  without  complaining,  to  whom  the  well-being  of  his 
state  was  due.  She  took  no  part  in  the  play  of  the 
circus,  except  to  appear  now  and  then  as  a  super,  but 
was  as  busy  with,  her  children  and  her  domestic  duties 
as  if  she  lived  in  a  house  anchored  to  the  ground  instead 
of  one  drawn  on  wheels.  Her  caravan  was  a  model  of 
shining  neatness,  and  her  children  not  less  so.  When  she 
had  finished  her  work  inside  she  would  sit  on  the  steps 
or  in  a  chair  on  the  grass  busy  with  her  needle,  and 
Pippin  would  sometimes  sit  and  talk  to  her,  or  play  with 
the  children,  who  all  loved  him. 


210  PIPFIN 

Perhaps  his  cliicf  friend  in  the  circus  was  the  little 
girl  who  had  made  herself  champion  of  the  poor  creature 
they  called  Bogle.  She  was  always  lying  in  wait  for 
him,  and  was  never  happier  than  when  she  was  in  his 
company,  (mattering  away  to  him  upon  every  subject 
that  came  into  her  head.  It  was  a  beautiful  little  char- 
acter that  she  revealed.  She  would  have  mothered  all 
the  world.  The  greatest  treat  he  could  give  her  was 
to  ask  her  to  do  something  for  him.  He  was  her  hero. 
She  would  sew  on  a  button  for  him  as  if  it  were  a  re- 
ligious ceremony,  but  she  would  also  direct  him  in  the 
way  he  should  go,  and  rebuke  him  if  she  did  not  approve 
of  an}thing  that  he  did  or  said. 

One  morning  she  came  to  him  and  said :  "Will  Gold- 
flake  ought  to  have  a  new  suit  of  clothes.  He  isn't  fit 
to  be  seen.  But  he  hasn't  got  any  money  to  buy  them. 
I'm  always  telling  him  that  he  ought  to  save  some  up, 
but  he  spends  it  all  on  food.  He  doesn't  really  under- 
stand about  saving  money,  and  he's  always  hungry ;  so 
I  can't  be  very  angry  with  him." 

The  last  sentence  was  spoken  in  a  confidential  whisper, 
for  Bogle  was  grinning  and  muttering  at  her  side,  and 
it  was  a  principle  with  her  not  to  admit  before  him 
that  he  was  deficient  in  understanding. 

"Will,  he  certainly  does  look  as  if  he  wants  a  new 
rig-out,"  said  Pippin.  "What  are  you  going  to  do  about 
it?" 

"I'm  going  to  take  up  a  collection,"  she  said.  "Would 
you  like  to  put  something  in?" 

SIm  was  carrying  a  plate,  which  she  held  out  to  him, 
and  he  made  his  contribution,  at  which  she  was  very 
pleased. 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    THE    CIRCUS      211 

"That  will  make  a  lovely  start,"  she  said.  "Father 
often  puts  half-a-crown  into  the  plate  to  start  a  collec- 
tion, because  it  makes  other  people  give  more.  But  I 
know  30U  won't  want  to  take  yours  back.  Would  }tou 
like  to  come  round  with  us?" 

Pippin  said  that  he  would,  and  they  took  the  vans 
and  tents  in  order.  It  was  in  the  quiet  time  after  the 
mid-day  meal,  and  most  of  their  occupants  were  in  or 
about  them. 

The  old  wardrobe  woman  was  the  first  to  whom  ap- 
plication was  made.  She  was  already  busy  with  her 
needle,  while  her  granddaughter  the  Fairy  Rosebud,  was 
tidying  up,  but  smiled  when  she  saw  Pippin  approaching 
and  left  off  to  hear  what  they  had  come  for. 

"Lor',  dearie!"  said  the  old  woman.  "I  might  spare 
a  copper  or  two,  but  you  want  more  than  coppers  to  buy 
a  suit  of  clothes." 

"If  you  give  according  to  your  ability  it  will  find 
acceptation,"  said  the  child  solemnly,  and  thetFairy  Rose- 
bud laughed.  "Isn't  she  a  funny  little  thing?"  she  said 
aside  to  Pippin.  "She's  always  talking  like  old  Joey 
when  he's  in  the  pulpit.  Why  don't  you  ask  Mr.  Mad- 
dock  or  Mr.  Schwenck,  Lizzie?  They  ought  to  find  Bogle 
in  clothes." 

"Will  Goldflake  and  I  would  rather  go  to  our  friends," 
said  Lizzie.     "Will  you  be  a  cheerful  giver?" 

She  held  out  the  plate,  and  Pippin  laughed  and  said : 
"There!  you'll  have  to  subscribe  now."  So  the  Fairy 
Rosebud  found  some  coppers  and  her  grandmother  a  six- 
pence,  and  they  went    their  way. 

Smithers  and  Fraddle  and  half  a  dozen  other  young 
men  with  whom  they  messed  were  smoking  outside  their 


212  PIPPIN 

tent,  and  made  their  customary  jokes  at  the  appearance 
of  the  child  and  her  protege1,  which  she  received  without 
puniling.  "You  can  all  look  after  yourselves,"  she  said, 
"and  you  have  plenty  of  money  to  spend  upon  smoking 
and  drinking  and  playing  cards  and  other  wickedness. 
But  Will  Goldfiake  can't  look  after  himself  as  well  as 
you  can,  because  he  has  a  slight  impediment  in  his  speech. 
So  you  ought  to  be  kind  to  him  and  help  him." 

"Hark  at  that  now!"  said  the  tender-hearted  Fraddle. 
"Give  me  a  kiss,  Lizzie,  and  I'll  give  you  a  whole  shilling." 

"I  don't  like  kissing  people  who  smell  of  beer,"  said 
the  child,  but  she  held  up  her  little  face  and  Fraddle 
kissed  her  and  rang  his  shilling  in  the  plate.  Smithers 
followed  with  two,  for  he  liked  to  play  the  grand,  as  his 
companions  expressed  it.  One  of  the  other  young  men 
confessed  himself  broke,  but  another  said  that  it  was 
he  who  had  won  money  from  him  at  cards  and  would 
pay  for  both. 

"But  Lizzie  don't  approve  of  playing  cards,"  said 
Fraddle. 

"Father  says  they  are  the  devil's  picture  book,"  she 
said.  "But  if  you  are  wicked  enough  to  play  for  money 
it  is  better  that  you  should  give  it  away  in  kindness  than 
spend  it  on  iniquity." 

"Preach  us  a  sermon  like  your  Dad,  Lizzie,"  said  one, 
"and  we'll  make  it  up  to  more." 

But  she  wouldn't  do  that.  "You  are  scoffers  at  holy 
things,"  she  said.  "But  perhaps  you  will  be  forgiven, 
as  you  haven't  turned  away  from  the  poor  and  needy. 
Come  along,  Will  Goldfiake.  You  are  not  to  drink  their 
beer.     It  is  very  wicked  of  them  to  tempt  you." 

Poor   Bogle   followed   her,   protesting   in   his    indistin- 


THE    PEOPLE    OF    THE    CIRCUS      213 

guishable  speech.  "I  know  he  drinks  beer  when  I'm  not 
there  to  look  after  him,"  she  confided  to  Pippin.  "But 
in  time  I  shall  wean  him  of  it.  He  wouldn't  do  it  at  all 
if  they  didn't  offer  it  to  him,  and  once  they  tried  to  make 
him  drunk.  It's  a  dreadful  thing  to  think  that  they  are 
all  going  to  hell." 

"It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  say  a  thing  like  that,"  said 
Pippin,  indignant  not  with  her  but  with  the  teaching 
that  could  put  such  words  into  the  mouth  of  a  child. 

"But  it  is  true,"  she  said  seriously,  "unless  they  find 
salvation;  but  nearly  all  of  them  refuse  to  embrace  their 
opportunities." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  hell?" 

She  did  not  hesitate,  and  gave  the  same  reply,  but 
added:  "You  have  been  very  kind  to  me  and  Will  Gold- 
flake,  and  I  love  you  very  much  and  pray  for  you  every 
night  and  morning." 

"That  is  better  than  talking  about  people  going  to 
hell,"  said  Pippin.  "You  wouldn't  hurt  anybody  you 
loved,  would  you?" 

"No,    of   course   not,"   she   said. 

"Very  well  then.  You  believe  that  God  loves  us,  and 
yet  you  think  he  is  going  to  hurt  a  great  many  people 
for  ever  and  ever.  It  isn't  true,  you  know,  whoever  told 
3Tou  so." 

But  she  wouldn't  have  it,  and  Pippin  did  not  want  to 
draw  upon  himself  the  displeasure  of  her  father  for  un- 
settling her  in  the  doctrines  in  which  she  had  been  brought 
up.  He  saw  that  they  were  mere  words  to  her,  and 
that  the  sweetness  and  goodness  of  her  nature  were 
the  best  antidotes  to  such  beliefs.  "If  you  go  on  being 
kind  and  good,"  he  said,  "you  can  believe  what  you  like." 


214  PIPPIN 

But  she  wouldn't  have  that  either,  so  he  left  the  sub- 
ject. 

The  Polder  Troupe  of  Acrobats  was  practising  in  the 
ring,  where  some  others  of  the  circus  people  were  also 
employed  getting  ready  for  the  evening's  entertainment. 

It  was  the  Polder  family  to  whom  Maddock's  circus 
chiefly  owed  its  exceptional  reputation.  Polder  and  his 
wife  had  both  been  born  to  the  kind  of  life  they  led, 
and  wanted  no  other  either  for  themselves  or  their  chil- 
dren. They  were  none  of  them  without  the  love  of 
public  display,  but  their  performance  depended  upon 
bodies  wrought  and  kept  up  to  a  high  pitch  of  perfec- 
tion, and  their  minds  were  directed  towards  that  end. 
The  acrobat  followed  a  more  rigid  rule  of  life  than  the 
clown,  whose  pretensions  he  treated  with  contempt.  He 
was  an  ascetic,  neither  smoked  nor  drank,  ate  sparingly, 
kept  to  hours  of  the  most  regular,  and  practised  his 
muscles  continually.  His  two  sons  followed  him  in  all 
these  things  and  were  proud  of  doing  so.  They  exercised 
self-discipline  for  the  sake  of  growing  like  him,  whom 
they  loved  and  admired,  and  the  outlook  into  the  future 
of  either  of  them  was  to  become  the  leader  of  a  troupe 
of  acrobats,  as  he  was.  But  the  bodily  training  to  which 
their  youth  had  been  subjected  bore  that  and  still  finer 
fruit ;  for  after  many  years  came  the  great  war.  By 
that  time  they  were  both  past  the  age  of  service,  but 
volunteered  and  were  accepted  because  of  their  virility, 
fought  on  the  side  of  right,  and  died. 

Now  young  men  will  treat  with  respect  above  all  others 
those  who  are  skilled  in  the  use  of  their  bodies.  Their 
Assumptions  of  superiority  are  accepted  where  the  as- 
Bumptions   of   others   are  scorned.      Polder   and  his   sons 


THE    PEOPLE    OF   THE    CIRCUS      215 

thought  highly  of  themselves,  and  the  young  men  of 
the  circus  looked  up  to  them.  They  set  a  tone  of  absti- 
nence which  if  it  was  not  implicitly  followed  was  respected. 
To  follow  the  devious  ways  of  self-indulgent  youth,  with 
plenty  of  opportunity  for  mischief,  and  no  principle  be- 
hind but  enjoyment  of  the  present,  was,  in  Maddock's 
circus,  to  earn  the  contempt  of  those  whose  opinions  were 
of  value.  Polder  was  a  man  of  few  words,  but  his  ap- 
proval or  disapproval  found  its  expression.  He  approved 
of  Pippin  for  his  clean  limbs  and  his  clean  life,  and 
welcomed  his  company,  though  it  must  be  confessed  that 
he  gave  little  in  return  for  it.  For  he  knew  little  of  life, 
and  his  obsession  of  bodily  perfection  mastered  him. 

The  Polders  were  just  finishing  their  practice  as  the 
child  entered  the  great  tent  with  her  following.  Polder's 
ideas  worked  slowly,  and  he  wanted  full  explanation  of 
Lizzie's  scheme  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  what 
to  do  about  it.  He  eyed  the  prospective  recipient  of  char- 
ity with  no  great  favour,  for  he  was  loose  and  shambling, 
and  Polder  could  have  forgiven  him  his  lack  of  brains 
but  could  not  forgive  him  that.  "Why  doesn't  he  exercise 
himself  with  dumb-bells?"  he  asked.  "That  would  make 
more  of  a  man  of  him,  and  he  wouldn't  have  to  go  round 
begging." 

But  Mrs.  Polder  had  had  a  word  with  Pippin,  whom 
she  much  liked.  "Oh,  Lizzie  is  collecting  for  a  present 
for  him,  father,"  she  said.  "That's  a  good  girl,  dear! 
Yes,  we'll  all  give  you  something,  and  if  you  give  up 
the  names  put  it  down  to  the  Troupe.  You  won't  want 
to  be  behindhand  with  the  rest,  father,  and  perhaps  it 
will  shame  Maddock  into  doing  something  more  than  he 
does  for  the  poor  afflicted  creature." 


216  PIPPIN 

From  these  mixed  motives  a  substantial  addition  to 
Lizzie's  collection  presently  accrued.  Money  was  also 
collected  from  the  men  at  work  in  the  tent,  who  treated 
the  matter  with  rough  jocularity,  but  were  kind  to  the 
child. 

When  they  had  left  the  tent,  she  said :  "Now,  Will  Gold- 
flake,  I  shan't  want  you  any  more  for  the  present;"  and 
when  lif  had  shambled  off  she  said  to  Pippin:  "I  am  going 
to  Mr.  Schwcnck's  van,  and  Will  Goldflake  doesn't  like 
Mr.  Schwenck." 

"But  I  thought  you  weren't  going  to  apply  to  him 
or  Mr.  Maddock,"  said  Pippin. 

"I  shan't  ask  Mr.  Schwenck,"  she  said,  "because  he  was 
very  unkind  to  Will  Goldflake,  and  he  can't  abide  him. 
But  I  shall  ask  Rosie." 

Pippin  was  not  unmoved  at  the  prospect  of  this  inter- 
view. Rosie  Schwenck  had  never  ceased  to  treat  him  as 
if  he  were  an  offence  upon  the  face  of  the  earth,  and 
Schwcnck's  van  was  the  only  one  of  them  all  that  he  had 
never  entered.  But  her  scorn  of  him  had  only  added  fuel 
to  the  flame  she  had  lit  in  him.  He  was  very  deeply 
in  love  with  her.  He  had  managed  to  conceal  his  wounds, 
but  they  were  heavy  upon  him,  and  beginning  to  spoil 
the  life  he  would  otherwise  have  enjoyed.  The  image  of 
Rosie  Schwenck  was  seldom  out  of  his  head  now. 

Herr  Schwenck  could  be  heard  snoring  inside  his  van. 
Rosie  was  washing  plates  outside.  She  dressed  more 
carefully  than  most  women  of  the  circus,  who  affected 
curl-papers  and  wore  somewhat  slatternly  clothes  when 
not  resplendently  attired  for  the  ring,  or  for  their  out- 
ings. Herr  Schwenck  claimed  superiority  of  birth  and 
education   over   the   rest,   and   his  daughter,   though   she 


THE   PEOPLE    OF   THE    CIRCUS      217 

made  no  such  claims  and  was  friendly  wherever  it  suited 
her  to  be  so,  gave  some  countenance  to  them.  Pippin's 
heart  contracted  as  he  saw  her  neat  and  trim,  with  her 
sleeves  rolled  up  over  her  dimpled  elbows,  engaged  on 
her  domestic  task.  But  he  put  on  an  air  of  more  than 
usual  unconcern  as  they  approached.  It  was  a  constant 
duel  between  these  two,  and  if  he  was  always  looking  for 
signs  of  relentment  in  her,  which  he  would  eagerly  have 
met,  he  would  not  appear  to  be  pleading  for  them. 

Rosie  looked  up  at  them,  and  went  on  with  her  wash- 
ing of  dishes.  There  was  a  gleam  in  her  eye  and  a  slightly 
heightened  colour  in  her  fresh  cheek.  The  child  made 
her  request,  and  held  out  her  plate,  upon  which  was  now 
a  pile  of  silver  and  copper  coins,  and  one  gold  one, 
jointly  subscribed  by  the  Polder  family. 

"I  should  have  thought  Captain  Glanville  might  have 
given  Bogle  one  of  his  spare  suits,"  said  Rosie,  not  look- 
ing at  Pippin.  She  always  called  him  "Captain  Glan- 
ville," with  an  inflexion  of  contempt  on  the  "Captain," 
whenever  she  had  occasion  to  refer  to  him  in  his  hearing. 

He  was  inured  to  this.  "Captain  Glanville,"  he  said, 
imitating  the  inflexion,  "hasn't  any  spare  suits." 

"Oh,  indeed !"  she  said.  "For  a  country  gentleman  of 
property  that  seems  rather  odd.  But  I  should  have 
thought  you  might  have  asked  your  friend  Maddock, 
instead  of  begging  of  people  so  much  below  your  quality. 
Maddock  would  do  anything  for  you,  wouldn't  he?" 

The  child  intervened.  "We  are  not  going  to  ask  Mr. 
Maddock  or  Mr.  Schwenck,"  she  said.  "It  is  going  to 
be  a  present  from  Will  Goldflake's  friends.  You  have 
always  been  kind  to  Will  Goldflake,  Rosie,  so  I  thought 
you  wouldn't  like  to  be  left  out 


» 


218  nrriN 

"No  more  I  shouldn't,  dear,"  said  Rosic,  and  went  into 
the  caravan. 

"I  knew  she  would.  She  is  really  very  kind,"  said  the 
child. 

This  tribute  moved  Pippin,  who  was  quite  ready  to 
attribute  kindness  to  her,  and  hoped  that  some  day  she 
would  show  some  of  it  to  him. 

She  came  out  and  added  to  the  pile  of  coins  five 
shillings,  which  the  child  received  with  ardent  expressions 
of  gratitude.  "You  were  quite  right  in  what  you  said, 
Lizzie,"  said  Pippin. 

"What  was  that?"  asked  Rosie,  and  when  she  had  been 
told  tossed  her  head  and  said  to  Pippin:  "I  am  what 
I  was  before  you  came  here,  and  shall  be  the  same  when 
you  have  gone."  So  Pippin  gained  little  advantage  from 
his  tentative  approach ;  but  the  thought  of  her  kindness 
remained  with  him,  and  made  him  long  for  her  the  more. 

Joey,  the  clown,  was  sitting  outside  his  van  when  they 
returned  to  it,  reading  in  his  Bible,  which  he  liked  to  do 
so  that  he  could  be  seen  of  men.  His  face  darkened 
when  he  had  enquired  of  the  child's  errand.  He  did  not 
like  her  attachment  to  the  simpleton,  and  she  had  collected 
more  money  than  he  was  ever  able  to  do  from  the  people 
of  the  circus. 

"Never  do  a  thing  like  that  again  without  asking  me 
first,"  he  said  severely.  "It  isn't  right  to  take  collections 
for  anything  but  the  service  of  the  tabernacle.  Take  it 
in,  and  I  will  see  what  is  to  be  done  with  it." 

"It  is  already  settled  what  is  to  be  done  with  it,"  said 
Pippin  going  off;  and  the  clown  looked  after  him  with 
no  pleasant  expression. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

PIPPIN    LEAVES    THE    CIRCUS 

Herr  Schwenck,  the  lion-tamer,  had  been  turned  from 
the  utmost  of  his  rancour  against  Pippin,  but  had  never 
forgiven  him  his  offence,  for  he  addressed  no  word  to  him, 
and  scowled  whenever  chance  brought  him  in  his  way. 
This  attitude  would  not  have  caused  Pippin  any  incon- 
venience, if  it  had  been  a  question  of  Schwenck  alone,  for 
he  kept  himself  aloof  from  the  rest  of  the  company,  few 
of  whom  had  any  sort  of  liking  for  him.  But  it  was 
also  the  attitude  of  his  daughter,  and  that  was  a  very 
different  affair. 

Rosie  Schwenck  was  liked  well  enough,  though  the 
younger  women  were  jealous  of  her  good  looks,  and  were 
severe  upon  the  way  she  had  the  men  running  after  her. 
She  would  give  each  and  all  of  her  admirers  encourage- 
ment from  time  to  time,  but  if  they  sought  to  draw  profit 
from  it  would  turn  her  back  upon  them.  Only  to  Pippin, 
out  of  all  of  them,  she  seemed  to  give  no  encouragement, 
and  would  never  hear  his  name  mentioned  without  express- 
ing her  scorn  for  him.  He  was  a  country  bumpkin,  in 
spite  of  his  high  opinion  of  himself;  a  beggar  on  horse- 
back ;  a  flatterer  of  Maddock  for  his  own  advantage.  For 
her  part  she  could  not  tell  what  the  other  young  men 
of  the  circus  saw  in  him  to  make  them  put  up  with  his 
airs.  There  was  not  one  of  them  who  was  not  more  of 
a  man  than  he. 

The  young  men  of  the  circus  were  not  unmoved  by  the 

219 


220  PIPPIN 

severity  of  her  strictures,  and  set  up  no  opposition  to 
them  when  in  her  company;  but  the  women  laughed  at 
her  and  said  that  she  would  not  speak  in  that  way  if 
her  opinion  of  Pippin  were  not  the  opposite  to  what 
she  proclaimed.  At  this  she  tossed  her  head,  and  asked 
whether  she  was  ever  to  be  seen  talking  to  him.  But 
after  that  she  did  not  criticize  him  again  before  the 
women. 

As  for  Pippin  he  was  as  deep  in  love  with  her  as  a 
generous-minded  young  man  can  he  under  the  influence 
of  his  first  passion,  to  which  he  gives  himself  over  with 
no  thought  of  what  lies  in  front  or  on  either  side  of  it, 
living  in  a  world  of  strong  emotion  which  colours  the 
smallest  happening  of  his  days.  Whether  he  would  have 
been  so  soon  and  so  entirely  subjugated  if  she  had  shown 
herself  to  him  from  the  first  for  what  she  actually  was 
— a  young  woman  of  very  ordinary  mind  with  a  very 
pretty  face — may  be  doubted.  She  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  him  at  all,  so  he  endued  her  in  the  fervency 
of  his  mind  with  perfections  far  beyond  her  compass,  and 
yearned  for  a  word  or  a  look  of  kindness  from  her  with 
almost  intolerable  longing.  She  gave  him  that  much 
from  time  to  time,  but  no  more,  and  it  was  enough  to 
keep  him  at  her  feet,  though  he  affected  to  treat  her 
in  is]  iking  of  him  with  indifference,  and  was  so  far  success- 
ful in  his  pretending  that  no  one  suspected  his  real  feel- 
ings. 

He  was  too  unskilled  to  draw  encouragement  from  the 
scorn  with  which  she  treated  him.  He  had  offended  her 
father  and  did  not  see  that  that  was  no  reason  for  it. 
What  he  hoped  was  that  he  would  presently  wear  down 
that  offence,  and  the  occasional  signs   from  her  that  he 


PIPPIN    LEAVES    THE    CIRCUS      221 

might  be  doing  so  were  all  that  he  needed  to  keep  his 
passion  ablaze.  Yet  he  sometimes  raged  against  her,  and 
told  himself  that  he  would  break  away  altogether,  from 
the  circus  and  from  her. 

There  came  a  time  when  her  apparent  dislike  for  him 
seemed  to  be  melting.  She  addressed  him  when  she  was 
obliged  to  do  so  with  ordinary  courtesy,  and  once  or 
twice  she  laughed  with  him  in  conversation  with  others, 
looking  into  his  face  as  if  there  was  community  of  spirit 
between  them.  How  kind  and  sweet  she  was,  under  all 
the  perversity  of  her  behaviour!  These  were  the  true 
flowers  of  her  nature,  now  at  last  unfolding  to  him.  He 
adored  her  more  than  ever,  and  one  night  upon  handing 
her  back  into  the  coach,  as  Dick  Turpin,  he  ventured 
on  a  pressure  of  the  hand.  It  was  returned,  ever  so 
slightly,  and  he  was  in  a  heaven  of  bliss.  The  next  morn- 
ing he  lay  in  wait  for  her,  and  when  she  appeared  boldly 
proposed  that  she  should  walk  with  him  to  the  town  upon 
the  outskirts  of  which  the  circus  was  encamped. 

She  stared  at  him  with  haughty  amazement,  and  then 
broke  out  angrily  against  him.  "Why  will  you  always 
be  annoying  me  with  your  attentions  when  it  is  plain  that 
I  don't  want  them?"  she  cried.  "I  have  had  enough 
of  it,  and  if  you  don't  leave  me  alone  I  shall  complain 
to  Mr.  Maddock." 

Her  eyes  flashed,  and  she  stamped  her  foot,  before 
turning  her  back  upon  him  abruptly  and  walking  off. 
There  could  be  no  doubt  of  her  genuine  anger,  which 
wiped  out  completely  all  the  signs  of  favour  upon  which 
he  had  fed  himself  during  the  days  that  had  passed.  It 
made  an  offence  of  the  pressure  of  the  hand  which  had 
so  moved  him  the  night  before.     His  anger  rose  in  turn. 


222  r  i  r  r  i  n 

This  was  the  end,  then.  For  the  sake  of  his  manhood 
lie  would  no  longer  follow  after  a  woman  who  treated 
him  in  that  fashion. 

This  decision  was  made  in  the  heat  of  the  moment. 
He  was  very  determined  upon  it,  but  some  inner  voice 
warned  him  that  the  carrying  out  of  it  would  only  be 
possible  if  he  cut  himself  loose  from  the  circus. 

For  this  he  was  now  quite  ready.  The  glamour  of  his 
nightly  appearances  had  departed  sooner  than  he  would 
have  thought  possible.  He  was  not  of  the  stuff  of  which 
performers  are  made.  Smithers  would  have  been  a  lost 
man  without  his  nightly  due  of  applause,  and  into  every 
part  that  he  played,  though  it  were  not  a  part  that  could 
gain  him  admiration  and  he  was  a  player  of  no  genius, 
he  put  his  meagre  soul,  and  wrapped  himself  round  as 
with  a  cloak  of  romance.  Pippin  was  tired  of  the  work 
he  was  doing.  He  was  earning  money  by  it,  but  it  was 
not  the  good  work  having  to  do  with  the  land  and  its 
produce  to  which  his  life  had  hitherto  tended  and  to 
which  he  would  presently  return.  There  was  no  satisfac- 
tion in  it  as  work,  and  little  any  longer  as  pleasure.  And 
he  was  with  the  same  people  day  after  day.  Though 
they  moved  on  from  town  to  town,  their  lives  were  as 
settled  as  if  they  stayed  always  in  the  same  place.  Even 
the  life  of  the  road  lacked  adventure,  with  the  long  trail- 
ing caravan  moving  along  it  at  a  snail's  pace,  and  all 
the  peace  of  the  country  spoilt  by  it.  He  had  not  left 
his  home  for  this.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Rosie  Schwenck 
hi-  might  have  tired  of  it  sooner.  Now  that  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  have  done  with  her  he  found  that  he  was 
very  tired  of  it.  lie  would  strike  away  as  soon  as  he 
could  settle  affairs  with  Maddock. 


PIPPIN    LEAVES    THE    CIRCUS      223 

He  was  also  rather  tired  of  Maddock,  and  his  hobby, 
which  was  creditable  to  him  as  a  man  who  might  have 
devoted  his  leisure  and  his  opportunities  to  pursuits  less 
innocent  than  the  collection  of  birds'  eggs  and  birds'  nests, 
but  for  Pippin  meant  only  a  return  to  the  play  of  his 
youth.  For  he  had  no  more  than  the  born  countryman's 
knowledge  of  the  demonstrations  of  nature  with  which  he 
had  always  been  familiar,  or  pleasure  in  them,  while  to 
Maddock  they  brought  something  of  a  scientific  interest. 
With  a  chosen  companion  their  roamings  afield  would  have 
served  as  well  as  any  other  occasion  for  a  day  of  pleasure; 
but  there  was  no  essential  community  between  the  young 
man,  driven  by  the  spirit  of  his  youth,  and  the  much  older 
man,  who  had  got  rid  of  all  but  secondary  desires  because 
he  did  not  wish  his  life  to  be  disturbed  out  of  its  contented 
ruck. 

When  he  had  made  this  decision  his  spirit  suddenly 
lightened,  but  immediately  drooped  again  as  he  imagined 
himself  removed  from  Rosie  Schwenck,  whom  it  was 
unlikely  that  he  would  ever  meet  again. 

He  was  walking  in  a  wood  near  where  the  circus  was 
encamped.  It  was  Sunday  afternoon.  Maddock  had 
invited  him  to  an  expedition  with  him,  but  he  had  refused, 
hoping  when  he  did  so  for  companionship  which  would 
please  him  better  than  Maddock's.  He  was  very  unhapp}-, 
and  sat  down  on  a  fallen  tree  trunk  to  condole  with  him- 
self. 

The  spring  had  marched  on  apace  since  Pippin  had 
left  home.  Nature  had  laid  a  brighter  carpet  in  the 
woods,  having  discarded  her  earlier  primrose  drugget. 
The  wild  hyacinths  were  as  blue  as  the  ceiling  of  the 
sky;   wood   anemones   danced  in  delicate  arabesque;   the 


22 1  p  i  r  r  i  n 

rose  campion  bluslicd  and  glowed  in  shady  corners.  And 
from  every  brake  and  thicket  came  the  music  of  the  happy 
birds.  Pippin  heard  them  without  hearing  them,  and  the 
fresh  beauty  of  nature  all  around  him  had  no  power  to 
arouse  him  from  the  dejection  that  sat  heavily  upon  him. 

He  was  sitting  by  a  grassy  path  on  the  edge  of  the 
wood.  The  path  by  which  he  had  come  there  was  hidden 
by  a  thick  growth  of  yew,  and  he  was  startled  by  the 
sound  of  a  twig  broken  upon  it,  for  he  had  thought  him- 
self quite  alone,  and  was  not  sure  that  he  had  not  groaned 
the  moment  before,  in  the  hearing  of  whoever  might  be 
coming. 

It  was  Rosie  Schwenck  who  came  upon  him  as  he  started 
to  his  feet,  and  they  stood  in  the  path  confronting  each 
other,  she  apparently  as  surprised  at  the  meeting  as  he 
was,  though  she  might  well  have  seen  him  starting  on  his 
lonely  walk,  and  it  was  not  her  custom  to  take  her  own 
walks  in  loneliness.  But  if  she  had  followed  him  he  had 
no  idea  of  it,  and  she  could  hardly  have  expected  to  come 
upon  him  with  that  suddenness. 

His  mind  was  full  of  resentful  thoughts  of  her,  and 
they  found  immediate  vent  as  she  stood  there  before 
him.  "Oh,  it's  you !"  he  said,  with  no  great  courtesy. 
"Let  me  tell  you,  now  this  opportunity  has  come,  that 
you  will  not  be  worried  with  my  attentions  much  longer. 
I  am  leaving  the  circus  as  soon  as  I  can,  and  until  I 
do  I  shall  be  in  your  way  as  little  as  possible." 

He  doffed  his  hat  to  her,  and  made  a  stride  past  her 
on  the  path  by  which  she  had  come. 

She  had  by  this  time  recovered  herself.  She  did  not 
move  from  where  she  stood,  but  said  quietly :  "That's  a 
pity." 


PIPPIN    LEAVES    THE    CIRCUS      225 

This  brought  him  to  a  stop,  and  he  turned  towards 
her  again.  She  stood  half  turned  from  him,  her  eyes 
lowered,  and  a  faint  smile  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth, 
while  he  uttered  some  of  the  bitterness  that  was  in  him. 

<cYes,  you  say  that !"  he  cried  vehemently.  "You  would 
like  me  to  think  that  we  might  be  friends,  which  is  all 
that  I  have  ever  wished  for."  (Oh,  Pippin!)  "And  when 
you  have  fooled  me  enough  you  will  turn  on  me  once 
more,  as  you  did  this  morning.  But,  no !  I  won't  be 
treated  in  that  way  any  longer,  by  you  or  anybody.  It's 
over  now.  I  shall  go  away,  remembering  all  the  insults 
that  you  have  piled  on  me,  and  you  can  play  your  games 
with  some  other  fool,  if  you  can  find  as  big  a  one  as  I 
have  been." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  him,  still  smiling  a  very  little. 
"If  you  are  going  away,"  she  said,  "it  would  be  better 
to  part  friends  than  enemies." 

She  was  a  girl  of  the  circus,  with  small  knowledge 
of  the  world  outside  it :  but  she  looked  something  very 
different  as  she  stood  there,  in  her  young  beauty ;  and 
her  quietness  in  face  of  his  vehemence  seemed  to  put  her 
far  above  him,  though,  if  he  had  remembered  it,  it  was 
he  who  had  hitherto  used  restraint  in  face  of  provoca- 
tion. 

His  anger  was  dissolved  under  her  words,  but  his  sore- 
ness remained.  "There  has  been  no  friendship  between 
us,"  he  said.  "I  have  wanted  it  and  you  haven't.  Why 
have  you  treated  me  as  you  have?  Am  I  so  much  below 
all  the  rest  of  the  men  about  you  that  you  can  make 
yourself  a  companion  to  them,  while  if  I  say  as  much 
as  a  word  to  you  it  is  a  deep  offence?  Oh,  you  have 
treated  me  shamefully,  and  for  no  reason,  and  you  can't 


226  rirriN 

wipe  it  out  by  a  word  at  the  end,  which  to-morrow  very 
likely  you  will  pretend  has  never  been  said."* 

The  smile  had  faded  from  her  face,  which  was  still  bent 
downwards.  "I  am  not  very  happy,"  she  said  when  he  had 
finished   speaking. 

It  was  no  answer  to  anything  he  had  said,  but  it  melted 
him  completely  towards  her.  Of  so  brittle  a  stuff  is  the 
anger  of  a  lover,  that  a  word  or  a  tone  will  bring  it  to 
an  end.  He  had  nothing  to  say  for  the  moment,  but 
stood  staring  at  her.  A  tear  escaped  from  her  and  ran 
down  her  cheek,  at  which  he  was  so  immensely  moved 
that  he  forgot  all  that  had  gone  before  and  stammered 
out  his  wish  to  protect  her  from  all  the  woes  of  the 
world  then  and  thereafter. 

She  did  not  repulse  him,  but  said:  "Come  and  sit  down 
here  and  I  will  tell  you  something,"  and  they  took  their 
seat  side  by  side  on  the  log  at  the  edge  of  the  wood. 

She  dried  her  tears,  which  had  fallen  more  freely  during 
his  avowal,  and  smiled  at  him,  which  made  him  love  her 
more  than  ever ;  for,  whatever  should  happen  now,  he 
knew  that  this  kindness  of  hers  was  no  pretence,  to  be 
followed  by  a  cruel  disdain,  but  represented  her  true 
feeling  for  him. 

"If  you  are  going  away,"  she  said,  "we  can  part  as 
friends,  and  I  am  glad  of  it." 

"But  if  I  stay !"  he  said. 

She  hesitated,  fingering  a  ribbon  of  her  dress.  "Per- 
haps you  won't  want  to  be  friends  when  I  tell  you — " 
she  said,  and  broke  off  without  telling  him. 

He  took  her  hand.  He  was  bold  now.  "Whatever  you 
tell  me,"  he  said,  "won't  make  any  difference.  I  love  you, 
and  that  is  the  only  thing  that  matters." 


PIPPIN    LEAVES    THE    CIRCUS      227 

She  left  her  hand  in  his  and  smiled  at  him,  but  said: 
"It  might  matter  a  little  whether  I  loved  you  or  not." 

This  enchanted  him.  He  smiled  at  her  in  return,  and 
said:  "But  you  do,  don't  you?" 

She  sighed.  "Perhaps  I  might  have  done,"  she  said 
simply.  "But  I  am  engaged  to  be  married,  so  I  am  afraid 
it  isn't  open  to  me  to  love  anybody." 

This  avowal  was  a  shock  to  him,  but  he  did  not  quite 
know  what  to  make  of  it.  He  let  go  of  her  hand  and 
frowned  at  her.  It  was  she  who  had  frowned  at  him, 
hitherto.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  engaged 
to  be  married  to  somebody  you  don't  love?"  he  asked 
her,  going  straight  to  the  point. 

She  was  unwilling  to  acknowledge  that.  "I  like  him 
very  well,"  she  said.  "It  has  been  arranged  for  a  long 
time.  We  are  to  be  married  when  the  summer  is  over, 
and  he  will  take  me  away  from  the  circus,  for  which  I 
shall  not  be  sorry." 

Her  matter-of-fact  tone  subdued  something  of  his  ar- 
dour. He  was  not  at  all  inclined  to  acknowledge  the 
rights  of  any  other  man  over  her,  but  he  had  to  know 
more  about  it  before  he  could  deal  with  the  coil  in  which 
she  was  involved. 

It  was  a  dealer  in  wild  animals  to  whom  her  father 
had  betrothed  her.  He  lived  hard  by  the  docks  of  the 
great  city,  and  received  his  wares  from  all  parts  of  the 
world.  He  was  a  rich  man,  many  years  older  than  she 
was.  She  would  have  a  settled  life,  and  everything  that 
money  could  buy  for  her.  Wasn't  that  the  best  sort  of 
marriage  for  a  girl  who  had  been  roving  since  her  child- 
hood, and  was  tired  of  it? 

No,  Pippin  protested  fervently;  it  was  the  worst  sort 


228  P  i  r  r  i  n 

of  marriage.  She  had  made  it  plain  that  she  did  not 
love  this  rich  man  many  years  older  than  herself.  It 
was  a  wicked  thing  to  marry  where  no  love  was,  and  if 
she  committed  that  Bin  she  would  bitterly  repenl  it. 

He  moved  her,  but  she  tried  hard  not  to  let  him  see 
it,  and  would  not  admit  that  she  was  marrying  only  for 
the  sake  of  money.  "He  is  a  kind  man,"  she  said,  "and 
I  like  him  very  much.  My  father  is  not  always  kind, 
and  though  I  have  learned  how  to  deal  with  him  I  shall 
be  glad  to  live  with  somebody  else." 

"It  is  he  that  is  driving  you  to  do  this  wicked  thing," 
cried  Pippin.  "It  might  not  have  been  so  wrong  if  you 
had  not  met  me;  but  now  it  is  different." 

She  did  not  rebuke  him  for  this  large  assumption,  but 
smiled  at  him  rather  sadly.  "If  I  had  known  you  be- 
fore!" she  said.     "But  I  have  given  my  word  now." 

He  protested  all  the  more  at  that.  "You  do  love 
me,"  he  said  vehemently.  "If  not  so  much  as  I  love  you 
yet,  you  do  love  me." 

She  would  not  say  that  she  didn't,  but  looked  away, 
and  said  in  a  low  voice:  "We  are  quite  different.  You 
are  very  young,  and  perhaps  you  have  never  loved  a 
girl  before.      But — " 

She  did  not  go  on.  Perhaps  she  wanted  to  know 
whethei   her  hazard  was  true. 

Pippin  vowed  that  she  was  the  first  girl  he  had  ever 
loved,  quite  unmindful  of  his  cousin  Alison,  who  was 
waiting  for  his  return  in  the  white  house  on  the  downs 
so  many  miles  away.  But  it  was  true  that,  although 
he  had  always  loved  Allison,  there  had  been  no  passion 
in  his  love  for  her. 

He  told  her  of  the  home  that  was  his,  the  old   gabled 


PIPPIN    LEAVES    THE    CIRCUS      229 

house  sunning  itself  among  its  orchards  and  wide  pas- 
tures, where  there  was  everything  for  a  woman  to  make 
herself  happy  as  well  as  a  man,  and  love  and  warmth 
for  whomever  he  should  bring  to  it. 

She  sighed  again.  "Such  things  are  not  for  me,"  she 
said,  and  no  warning  came  to  him  that  she  was  right 
and  that  the  life  he  was  so  ardent  in  offering  her  would 
not  for  long  satisfy  the  woman  she  had  been  trained 
to  be. 

But  having  said  that,  she  did  not  refuse  to  listen  to 
him  further  as  he  pressed  her,  all  the  more  vehemently 
for  what  she  was  holding  back  from  him. 

She  would  not  say  that  she  loved  him,  though  it  was 
plain  that  something  in  her  was  melting  towards  him. 
She  was  passive  under  his  pleading,  but  he  had  again 
possessed  himself  of  her  hand,  and  she  left  it  in  his  while 
she  sat  with  downcast  eyes  which  were  now  moist  again. 

Suddenly  she  snatched  away  her  hand  and  sprang  up. 
They  had  been  so  taken  up  with  one  another  that  neither 
of  them  had  heard  an  approaching  footstep.  By  the 
way  she  had  come  Herr  Schwenck  had  also  come,  whether 
under  some  suspicion  or  merely  for  a  random  stroll,  which 
would  have  been  unlike  him,  Pippin  never  knew,  and  now 
stood  before  them  with  red  and  angry  face,  and  voluble 
words  proceeding  from  his  thick  lips. 

Only  a  few  minutes  later,  Pippin  was  sitting  alone 
where  he  had  been  sitting  when  Rosie  had  come  upon  him. 
Her  father's  harsh  angry  voice  was  in  his  ears,  but  all 
the  insulting  things  he  had  said  were  overborne  by  her 
one  word  of  "Good-bye,"  which  she  had  spoken  in  a  low 
voice  with  her  eyes  upon  his. 

That  night  Pippin  left  the  circus,  after  a  scene  with 


230  PIPPIN 

Maddock,  which  ended  on  a  more  friendly  note  than  had 
seemed  likely  at  its  beginning.  "Well,"  said  Maddock,  at 
last,  when  he  had  seen  that  he  was  determined  to  go,  "I 
never  ex  [acted  to  keep  you  long,  and  it's  quite  true  that 
I  can  do  without  you.  So  if  part  we  must,  let  us  part 
friends.  We  have  had  some  pleasant  times  together,  but 
your  interest  in  natural  science  is  not  so  great  as  I  had 
thought.     I  must  pursue  my  studies  by  myself." 

No  doubt  Maddock,  who  was  for  himself  first  and  last, 
though  he  had  something  to  spare  for  others  in  between, 
had  got  less  pleasure  out  of  Pippin's  companionship  than 
he  had  anticipated ;  and  he  had  told  him  more  than  once 
of  late  that  he  was  not  putting  the  same  vigour  into  his 
act  of  Dick  Turpin  as  he  had  begun  with.  He  was  a 
man  who  would  rather  have  peace  than  strife,  other 
things  being  equal,  and  Pippin  was  glad  to  take  leave 
of  him  on  a  note  of  agreement.  He  had  said  nothing  to 
him  of  Hosie  Schwenck,  but  thought  it  was  not  improbable 
that  her  father  would  do  so,  and  wanted  to  be  out  of 
it  all  before  this   came  about. 

Night  had  fallen  before  he  had  finished  with  Maddock, 
who  had  been  away  all  day.  He  left  him  to  suppose  that 
he  would  be  setting  off  early  the  next  morning,  but  he 
had  already  made  his  preparations,  and  within  a  few 
minutes  of  his  leaving  Maddock's  caravan  he  had  turned 
his  back  upon  the  tents  and  vans  of  the  circus.  He 
would  have  liked  to  say  good-bye  to  one  or  two,  and 
especially  to  the  little  child  with  whom  he  had  made 
friends.     But  better  away  at  once! 

He  stood  for  a  moment  outside  the  caravan  in  which 
he  knew  that  Hosie  was,  and  then  stepped  out  into  the 
night,  the  load  on  his  heart  heavier  than  that  on  his  back. 


CHAPTER  XX 

PIPPIN    ACQUIRES    A    FRIEND,    AND    WALKS    ON 

Pippin  walked  throughout  the  night.  He  wanted  to  put 
the  miles  between  him  and  the  girl  he  loved  but  would 
never  see  again.  He  was  as  unhappy  as  only  those  can 
be  who  are  bereft  of  hope,  and  these  are  more  often  the 
young  than  the  old;  for  in  youth  the  lesson  has  not  yet 
been  learned  that  the  strong  desires  of  the  moment  will 
lose  their  strength,  and  others  will  take  their  place. 
Underneath  this  black  cloud  he  could  not  reason  his  way 
into  the  sunshine  that  lay  ahead  of  him ;  he  could  only 
oppose  a  stoic  endurance  to  his  misery.  But  in  all  the 
passing  to  and  fro  in  his  mind  of  memories  and  regrets 
the  worst  thought  of  all,  that  he  would  never  see  her 
again,  became  in  some  sort  a  stay  to  him,  and  by  clinging 
to  it  he  passed  through  and  out  of  his  dark  time,  but 
not  until  many  days  had  gone  by. 

The  first  signs  of  dawn  found  him  many  miles  from 
the  town  where  he  had  left  the  circus.  He  was  on  a  high 
and  desolate  moor,  with  no  signs  of  habitation  in  sight, 
but  only  the  road  beckoning  him  on  to  where  human  life 
would  begin  again  be3rond  the  rim  of  the  hills.  As  the 
light  grew  stronger  his  thoughts  took  some  colour  from 
what  he  could  see  of  his  surroundings,  and  were  perhaps 
even  a  little  solaced  by  them,  though  he  was  not  conscious 
of  any  lightening  of  his  mood. 

The  rabbits  were  out  on  the  close  nibbled  turf,  soaked 

in  dew.     The  moorland  birds  were  busy  over  their  day's 

231 


232  pirriN 

work  of  providing  themselves  with  provender.  Now  and 
then  the  agile  upland  sheep,  who  roamed  the  wastes  of 
grass  and  rock  and  heather  in  almost  as  wild  a  state  as 
the  birds  and  the  rabbits,  scurried  out  of  his  way  and 
then  turned  to  look  at  him  walking  doggedly  along  the 
highway.  All  these  animals  were  fulfilling  the  laws  of 
their  being,  in  freedom.  They  were  not  thrown  into  misery 
by  the  processes  of  the  mind,  and  if  danger  or  terror 
came  to  them,  the  moment  the  oppression  was  lifted  it 
was  clean  forgotten.  But  there  was  no  freedom  for  man, 
so  much  higher  than  they,  who  must  keep  to  the  trodden 
road,  wherever  it  might  lead  him,  and  if  he  left  it  for 
a  time  must  get  back  to  it  under  pain  of  being  lost  alto- 
gether. 

The  sun  came  up  over  the  dark  moor  and  turned  it 
to  burnished  gold,  with  embroideries  of  delicate  fresh 
green,  and  the  larks  mounted  up  into  the  sky  to  sing  its 
praises.  Pippin  was  a  thought  comforted  in  spirit  by 
its  majestic  uprising,  but  put  the  comfort  away  from 
him  and  plodded  on.  He  was  both  tired  and  hungry 
now,  but  his  sudden  departure  had  not  prevented  his  pro- 
viding himself  with  some  food,  which  he  ate  as  he  walked 
along.  It  would  be  time  to  rest  when  he  should  be  so  tired 
that  sleep  would  be  a  certainty,  and  there  were  signs  of 
tnrs  and  a  kinder  country  far  ahead  of  him,  in  which 
he  could  find  some  sheltered  spot  in  which  to  lay  himself 
down. 

The  sun  was  well  up  by  the  time  he  had  mounted  the 
last  long  hill  at  the  edge  of  the  moor,  and  saw  spread 
out  in  front  of  him  a  wooded  valley  which  had  drawn  to 
itself  dwellings  of  men  to  till  and  tend  its  fertile  acres.  A 
brawling  brook  had  come  out  of  the  hills  to  meet  him  and 


PIPPIN    ACQUIRES    A    FRIEND      233 

keep  him  company  down  the  last  mile  of  road.  He  drank 
from  its  sparkling  waters,  and  presently  when  it  ran 
under  a  stone  bridge  and  went  singing  off  to  explore 
the  recesses  of  a  wood  he  followed  it,  to  find  a  little  grassy 
lawn  shaded  by  oaks,  which  he  took  for  his  bed.  He  had 
no  sooner  laid  his  head  upon  the  pack  he  carried  than  he 
fell  asleep. 

He  did  not  waken  until  some  hours  later,  and  might 
have  slept  longer  still  if  he  had  not  been  roused  by  a 
damp  touch  on  his  cheek,  which  in  springing  up  in  sudden 
alarm  he  found  to  be  from  the  nose  of  a  dog  that  stood 
before  him  waving  a  friendly  tail. 

The  dog  was  a  retriever,  only  just  out  of  puppyhood, 
but  grown  to  its  full  height  and  glossy  perfection  of  coat, 
a  nobly  bred  animal  whose  kindness  and  loyalty  shone 
through  his  liquid  brown  eyes  and  made  their  way  straight 
to  Pippin's  sore  heart.  For  even  upon  his  sudden  wak- 
ing, in  some  alarm,  his  unhappiness  had  awakened  too  and 
lay  in  the  back  of  his  mind  ready  to  show  itself  when 
he  should  have  time  to  attend  to  it.  The  dog  had  not 
drawn  back  at  his  starting  up,  but  stood  as  if  ready  to 
be  thanked  for  his  greeting  and  invited  to  further  demon- 
strations of  affection.  His  look  and  attitude  were  so 
expressive  that  they  seemed  to  translate  themselves  into 
spoken  words. 

"Come  now!  You  never  expected  to  find  a  friend  here 
when  you  woke  up,  did  you?  Aren't  you  glad?  What 
are  we  going  to  do  together?" 

Pippin  put  his  hand  on  the  dog's  smooth  head,  and 
was  immediately  overwhelmed  with  caresses,  accompanied 
by  ecstatic  wrigglings  of  the  body  and  sweepings  of  the 
feathered  tail. 


284  PIPPIN 

"Ah!  There's  nothing  like  love  in  the  world,  is  there? 
You  and  I  were  made  for  each  other.  I  can't  tell  you 
what  it  means  bo  me  t<>  find  you  here." 

It  had  just  occurred  to  Pippin  that  the  dog  must 
have  an  owner,  who  could  not  be  far  away,  when  he  saw 
a  big  man  in  the  dress  of  a  gamekeeper  coining  towards 
him.  He  was  ;i  lowering  disagreeble-looking  sort  of  fel- 
low, and  cyvd  Pippin  with  some  suspicion,  but  said 
nothing  as   he   passed  except  to  call   roughly  to   the  dog. 

The  dog  made  motions  of  obedience  with  his  head  and 
tail  but  snuggled  closer  to  Pippin.  "I  shall  have  to 
go  with  him  if  he  insists  upon  it,  but  you  have  taken  my 
fancy  and  I'll  stay  with  you  if  you  can  arrange  it  with 
him." 

"He's  a  nice  dog  this,"  said  Pippin  in  a  friendly 
tone. 

The  man  stopped  and  looked  at  them  both.  "He's  a 
well-bred  dog,"  he  said,  "and  worth   a  lot  of  money." 

The  dog  snuggled  up  still  closer.  "You  heard  that! 
Give  him  a  lot  of  money,  and  I  can  stay  with  you." 

Pippin  understood  both  the  man  and  the  dog.  "Will 
you  sell  him?"  he  asked. 

The  man  said  he  would,  and  after  another  look  at 
Pippin  named  a  high  price. 

"Oh,  pay  it,"  said  the  dog,  "if  you've  got  it.  What's 
money  compared  with  all   the  love  I  shall  give  you?" 

Pippin  wanted  love  at  that  moment,  more  than  any- 
thing. As  it  chanced,  the  sum  that  the  man  had  men- 
tioned was  exactly  that  which  he  had  brought  away  with 
him  for  his  work  in  the  circus.  There  seemed  to  be  some 
fitness  in  using  it  in  this  way,  and  he  agreed  at  once  to 
the  price. 


PIPPIN   ACQUIRES   A   FRIEND      235 

The  man  seemed  to  regret  that  he  had  not  asked  more. 
"I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  sell  him  after  all,"  he  said. 
"He'll  take  a  lot  of  prizes  when  he's  older." 

Pippin  was  ready  enough  to  see  what  he  would  be  at. 
He  put  his  purse  back  in  his  pocket.  "If  you  won't  you 
won't,"  he  said.  "I  know  you  won't  get  that  money 
for  him  anywhere  else." 

Then  the  man  accepted  the  price  and  went  off 
grumbling.  The  dog  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  pleasure,  and 
Pippin  was  hardly  less  pleased  at  having  found  this  new 
friend  to  stay  him  in  his  trouble. 

"Now  what  shall  I  call  vou?"  he  said. 

It  was  all  one  to  the  dog.  He  would  answer  to  any 
name  that  his  dear  master  fastened  on  to  him.  "Ben," 
suggested  Pippin.  Yes,  that  would  do  capitally.  How 
clever  to  have  thought  of  it !  But  it  was  plain  that  such 
a  master  could  be  entirely  trusted,  whatever  problem 
might  confront  him. 

Presently  Pippin  shouldered  his  pack  and  walked  on 
again.  The  dog  leaped  about  him  barking  his  satisfac- 
tion at  the  prospect  of  movement,  but  the  moment  Pippin 
had  put  himself  into  motion  he  left  him  to  follow  the 
promptings  of  his  own  enquiring  mind,  though  sometimes 
he  would  return  just  to  show  that  they  were  indeed  com- 
panions, and  no  disloyalty  was  intended  by  his  intermit- 
tent rovings. 

"Well,  dear  master,  have  you  ever  enjoyed  yourself 
more?  I  thought  I  must  just  come  back  for  a  word 
with  you.  Now  I'll  be  off  again.  Hulloa !  What's  this? 
Smells  to  me  like  rabbit.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  one  hadn't 
just  gone  into  this  wood.  Eh?  What's  that?  Ben! 
Yes,  that's  me.     What  do  you  want?     Oh,  ver}'  well,  if 


236  PIPPIN 

you'd  rather  I  didn't !  I'd  do  much  more  to  please  you 
than  stop  chasing  a  silly  little  rabbit.  What  about  a 
race  along  the  road?  Must  stretch  your  legs  a  bit  at 
this  time  of  the  morning.  Well,  if  you  won't  I  will. 
Watch  me  as  far  as  that  big  tree." 

Pippin  hardly  knew  how  much  his  unhappiness  was 
lessened  by  the  companionship  of  this  new  loving  friend 
of  his.  He  watched  him  and  laughed  at  him,  and  some- 
times kept  him  by  his  side  to  talk  to  him.  But  in  the 
main  trouble  of  mind  still  held  him,  memories  ever  renew- 
ing themselves,  and  longings  so  strong  that  he  was  more 
than  once  minded  to  turn  round  and  retrace  his  steps  to 
where  he  had  come  from,  even  if  it  were  only  to  solace 
his  eyes  with  one  more  look  at  the  face  of  the  girl  he 
loved  and  set  off  again.  But  temptations  of  the  mind 
are  often  subdued  by  actions  of  the  body.  When  he  was 
most  beset  in  this  way  his  feet  carried  him  forward  on 
his  road,  and  he  was  just  able  to  refrain  from  the  effort 
of  will  that  would  have  halted  them  and  turned  them 
back. 

Pippin  was  making  for  the  sea,  which  was  some  days* 
march  from  where  he  had  left  the  circus.  The  sea,  with 
its  wide  free  spaces  and  the  unhindered  sky  over  it,  is 
a  great  solace  to  minds  in  perplexity.  It  bears  witness 
to  that  infinity  from  which  we  came  and  to  which  we  shall 
return,  in  the  contemplation  of  which  the  greatest  troubles 
of  mankind  are  no  more  than  the  momentary  fluttering  of 
an  insect's  wing.  He  had  lived  his  life  within  sound  and 
sight  of  the  sea,  and  in  this  first  serious  disturbance  of 
mind  that  had  ever  come  upon  him  he  turned  to  it  instinc- 
tively. He  was  further  now  from  the  great  city  than 
when  he  had  started  on  his  journeyings;  but  he  was  in 


PIPPIN   ACQUIRES   A   FRIEND      237 

no   hurry   to   reach    it.      The  lesser   towns    of   which   he 
had  had  experience  had  made  it   seem   less  desirable  to 
him,  and  his  inclination  to  walk  through  the  country  in 
freedom  of  body  and  as  much  as  might  be  of  spirit  had 
revived,  though  not  in  its  first  strength  and  freshness. 
His   road  lay  across   the  lonely  moors,   and   through 
*  valleys   which  lay  between  them.      Sometimes   he  walked 
for  hours  together  as  on  the  first  day  without  meeting 
any  of  human  kind;   sometimes  habitations   around  him 
were  plentiful,  and  he  could  have  had  companionship  on 
the  road  if  he  had  desired  it.     But  he  was  still  sore  from 
the  wound  to  his  heart,  and  in  no  mood  to  adapt  himself 
to  the  ways   and  thoughts   of  others.      He  was   content 
with  the  company  of  his  dog  Ben,  who  adapted  himself 
to  his,  as  far  as  in  him  lay.     A  dog  who  loves  his  master 
has  no  desires  of  his  own  strong  enough  to  interfere  with 
that   single-minded  devotion.      Though  on   a  lower  scale 
of  being  than  man,  and  upheld  by  none  of  the  hopes  of 
reward  which  encourage  men  to  subdue  their  carnal  de- 
sires, he   responds  promptly   to   the  higher   call   of  love 
and  duty.     His  master  can  do  no  wrong  in  his  eyes.     If 
he  is  unjust  or  even  cruel  the  dog  will  take  punishment 
as  his  desert,  though  he  does  not  understand  it;  and  if 
tyranny  relaxes  ever  so  little  he  will  forget  it  all  and 
show  love   and   gratitude   for   the   relenting.      Ben,   with 
but  a  few  months  of  life  behind  him,  and  a  few  years  at 
most  in  front,  knew  already  that  love  was  the  greatest 
tiling  in  the  world,  and  would  follow  its  rule  to  the  end. 
He  trusted  in  Pippin  for  everything,  and  supported  him 
in  his  trouble  by  that  devotion. 

On  the  second  evening  the  man  and  the  dog  came  upon 
a  moorland  village,  after  covering  many  miles   of  road. 


238  PIPPIN 

Pippin  was  hungry  and  weary  of  foot,  and  Ben  walked 
at  his  heels  instead  of  scampering  off  hither  and  thither 
on  his  own  devices. 

The  first  dwelling1  they  came  upon  was  a  little  farm 
some  way  apart  from  the  village.  There  was  a  stone- 
built  house,  in  a  little  garden,  and  a  few  fields  reclaimed 
from  the  moor.  In  the  garden  was  a  long  row  of  straw 
beehives,  and  a  notice  on  the  gate  advertising  the  sale  of 
honey,  and  also  of  refreshment  for  travellers.  Refresh- 
ment was  what  Pippin  most  wanted  at  that  moment,  so 
he  went  through  the  garden  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

As  he  stood  waiting  to  be  let  in,  Ben  squatting  on  his 
haunches  at  his  feet  and  looking  up  in  his  face  with  full 
confidence  that  something  would  come  out  of  this  of 
benefit  to  them  both,  voices  were  heard  from  inside  the 
house,  a  woman's  voice  raised  in  shrill  annoyance,  and  a 
man's  in  quieter  remonstrance.  Pippin  knocked  again 
more  loudly.  The  voices  ceased,  and  footsteps  came  to- 
wards the  door. 

It  was  opened  by  a  youngish  man  in  his  working 
clothes,  which  though  worn  and  stained  were  of  better 
quality  than  those  of  a  field  labourer,  and  had  something 
reminiscent  of  the  stable  about  them.  The  man  was 
tall  and  thin  and  had  a  queer  twisted  smile  on  his  shaven 
face,  which  was  much  lined,  and  browned  by  the  sun. 
He  limped  badly,  with  one  leg  shorter  than  the  other. 
It  was  plain  by  the  smile  that  whatever  sharpness  had 
marked  the  conversation  in  which  he  had  just  taken  part 
had  not  been  on  his  side.  Ben  made  haste  to  express  his 
approval  of  him  with  a  nose  poked  forward  and  \n  aggings 
of  his  tail.  "This  is  a  man  you  may  trust,  master.  I 
am  Dever  mistaken  in  such  matters." 


PIPPIN   ACQUIRES   A   FRIEND      239 

Pippin  asked  if  he  might  have  the  refreshment  an- 
nounced for  travellers,  and  the  man  scratched  his  close- 
cropped  head  and  laughed.  He  did  not  reply  directly, 
but  called  out,  with  a  turn  of  the  head  towards  the  room 
from  which  he  had  come :  "Here's  a  traveller,  dear  heart ! 
Now  what  did  I  tell  you?"  Then  he  stood  aside  and  said: 
"Come  in,  sir,  and  we  will  see  what  we  can  do  for  you." 

Ben  pushed  by  them  both  and  ran  into  the  room.  Before 
Pippin  could  follow  him  there  was  a  shriek  of  dismay, 
and  the  angry  woman's  voice  was  raised  again  in  protest 
at  this  intrusion.  Pippin  entered  with  apologies  and 
assurances  that  his  dog  was  harmless,  but  Ben  had  already 
satisfied  his  curiosity  upon  what  the  room  might  contain, 
and  was  assuring  his  master  that  small  notice  need  be 
taken  of  the  person  whom  he  had  unwittingly  alarmed. 

In  appearance  she  was  not  what  Pippin  had  expected 
to  see.  She  stood  by  the  window,  a  woman  nearly  as 
tall  as  her  husband,  and  of  about  the  same  age.  Her  face 
had  the  remains  of  good  looks  that  must  have  been  hers 
in  her  earlier  youth,  but  was  marred  by  an  expression 
of  extreme  ill-content,  which  was  not  of  the  moment  but 
had  set  a  permanent  mark  on  it.  What  was  most  notice- 
able about  her,  in  this  rather  poorly  furnished  cottager's 
room,  with  a  husband  hardly  above  the  rank  of  a  labourer, 
was  that  she  was  dressed  as  a  lady  of  some  quality,  and 
in  spite  of  her  storming  tongue  and  disagreeable  look 
showed  other  marks  of  higher  breeding. 

Fortunately  Pippin's  appearance  pleased  her,  for  she 
smiled  graciously  on  him  and  said:  "I  was  startled  by 
your  dog,  but  I  see  there  is  nothing  to  be  frightened  of." 
She  made  a  motion  of  amity  towards  Ben,  who  was  settling 
himself  to  sleep  on  the  hearthrug,  but  though  he  looked 


240  J'  I  r  P  I N 

at  her  out  of  a  half  opened  eye  he  made  no  sign  of  accept- 
ing it. 

"Now  can  we  give  this  young  man  some  tea?"  her  hus- 
band asked.  "It's  a  fact,  sir,  that  we  only  put  up  that 
notice  this  morning,  after  a  few  words  about  it,  and  we 
have  taken  no  steps  yet  to  supply  what  we  offer.  But  I 
dare  say  we  have  enough  of  our  own,  and  if  you'll  wait 
a  moment  I  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

His  wife  made  no  sign  either  of  acquiescence  or  refusal, 
and  he  went  out  of  the  room.  The  lady  motioned  Pippin 
to  a  seat,  and  took  one  herself.  She  was  dressed  in  out- 
door attire,  and  seemed  to  think  that  an  explanation  of 
that  and  other  matters  was  the  first  thing  necessary. 

"This  is  a  very  dull  place  you  have  come  to,"  she  said. 
"Nothing  goes  on  in  it  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other 
except  some  old-fashioned  dancing  sometimes  on  summer 
evenings.  I  was  just  going  to  the  village  to  look  on  at 
it,  and  my  husband  had  promised  to  go  with  me.  I  had 
been  dressed  and  waiting  for  him  for  half  an  hour  and 
he  comes  in  in  his  working  clothes  and  expects  me  to  go 
with  him  like  that.  Surely  I  have  enough  to  put  up  with, 
married  to  a  man  who  was  nothing  but  my  father's 
groom,  without  being  made  a  laughing  stock  to  all  the 
clowns  and  trollopes  of  this  wretched  place  he  has  brought 
me  to !" 

Pippin  was  quite  at  a  loss  what  to  reply  to  this,  but 
apparently  she  only  wanted  a  listener,  for  she  went  on: 
"I  dare  say  it  surprises  you  to  find  a  woman  such  as  I 
am  married  to  a  man  like  that.  He  is  a  very  wicked  man. 
He  took  advantage  of  my  youth  and  innocence  of  the 
world  to  make  love  to  me,  who  was  very  far  above  him. 
I  was  not  happy  at  home,  for  my  father  was   a  harsh 


PIPPIN   ACQUIRES   A   FRIEND      241 

man  and  my  mother  was  dead.  He  persuaded  me  to  run 
awa}T  with  him  and  get  married,  and  my  father  never  for- 
gave me.  I  have  never  forgiven  myself  either.  I  have 
led  a  life  of  poverty  and  misery,  when  I  might  have  had 
a  very  different  lot.  And  all  because  I  listened  to  a  de- 
ceiver, who  had  some  good  looks  then,  whatever  he  may 
be  now,  and  who  swore  that  I  should  never  repent  trust- 
ing him.  Ah,  how  bitterly  I  do  repent  it,  every  day  of 
my  life !  The  law  ought  to  prevent  such  things.  Men 
are  punished  for  much  less  crimes  than  he  committed, 
and  yet  he  goes  free  and  laughs  at  the  world,  while  I  his 
victim  shall  live  in  misery  as  long  as  my  life  lasts." 

She  dissolved  in  tears.  Pippin  was  made  excessively 
uncomfortable,  but  in  his  inexperience  was  not  without 
some  sympathy  for  her,  though  from  what  he  had  already 
seen  of  her  husband  he  was  inclined  to  think  her  blame 
of  him  too  absolute. 

The  husband  came  back  into  the  room  at  that  moment. 
When  he  saw  his  wife  in  tears  his  face  changed,  and 
he  said  tenderly:  "Ah,  now,  don't  take  on,  dear  heart. 
I  was  a  brute  to  cross  you,  but  there  was  such  a  lot  of 
work  to  get  through,  and  I  wasn't  feeling  like  turning 
myself  into  a  gentleman  just  for  the  hour  I  could  spare 
for  the  dancing.  Now  why  shouldn't  you  go  up  to  the 
green,  and  when  this  young  man  has  had  his  tea  and 
rested  a  bit  perhaps  he'll  join  you  on  his  way  to  the  town. 
Then  you'll  have  a  handsomer  beau  than  ever  I  can  make 
you,  however  I  dress  myself  up." 

Pippin's  sympathies  had  now  veered  to  the  side  of 
the  husband.  He  was  not  anxious  to  squire  the  wife 
anywhere,  and  he  still  had  eight  or  nine  miles  to  walk 
to  the  seaside  town  where  he  was  to  sleep ;  but  he  made 


242  P I  r  P I N 

haste  to  offer  himself,  and  the  lady  with  a  glance  at  his 
good-looking  youthful  face  and  trim  figure,  graciously 
accepted  his  offer  and  left  the  house,  without  a  word  to 
her  husband,  whose  offence  still  rankled.  He  was  limping 
in  and  out  of  the  room,  spreading  the  tea-table,  deftly 
enough,  as  if  he  was  quite  used  to  this  kind  of  work, 
which  might  have  been  expected  to  be  performed  by  the 
woman  of  the  house. 

"Ah,  the  poor  soul!"  he  said,  with  a  glance  at  her 
through  the  window  walking  down  the  garden  path.  "It's 
a  trying  life  for  one  brought  up  as  she  was.  Now  I'll 
be  bound  that  it  surprised  you  to  find  a  lady  of  that 
quality  married  to  a  common  bee-keeper.  It's  a  sad  life 
she's  had  from  the  very  start  of  things,  and  I  wish  I  could 
do  something  to  make  it  brighter  for  her.  If  I  hadn't  had 
the  bad  accident  I  did  soon  after  we  were  married  I 
might  have  got  on  and  made  more  monc}\  Then  she 
wouldn't  ha'  felt  she'd  come  down  so.  It's  a  hard  thing 
for  a  woman  to  come  down  in  the  world,  young  master. 
Now  I  think  here's  everything  ready  for  you.  If  you'll 
allow  me  I'll  drink  a  cup  of  tea  with  you  myself.  I  shall 
be  glad  to  sit  down  for  half  an  hour,  for  my  hip  is  bad 
to-day.  Happen  there's  thunder  somewhere  about. 
That  bone  of  mine  tells  me  the  weather  that's  coming  bet- 
ter than  any  glass  that  was  ever  made." 

If  the  bee-keeper  was  responsible  for  the  victualling  of 
his  house,  he  had  made  as  good  a  job  of  it  as  any  woman 
could  have  done.  There  was  a  crisp-crusted  loaf  of  home- 
made bread,  rich  yellow  butter,  and  heather  scented 
honey  oozing  out  of  its  comb.  The  tea  was  of  no  super- 
fine quality,  hut  there  was  thick  cream  to  drink  with  it. 
Pippin   was   almost   ashamed   of   the   appetite   with   which 


PIPPIN   ACQUIRES   A   FRIEND      243 

he  fell  upon  this  good  fare,  but  his  host  encouraged 
him  with  one  of  his  queer  sidelong  smiles.  "I  don't  eat 
much  myself,"  he  said.  "I  get  too  tired  for  it.  But  I 
like  to  see  a  hearty  appetite.  Well  there  now !  If  we 
haven't  forgotten  the  dog!  Poor  old  fellow,  then!  I've 
got  just  the  thing  for  you  in  the  larder.  Wait  a  minute 
now,  and  I'll  get  it  for  you." 

He  was  up  and  out  of  the  room,  and  immediately  re- 
turned with  a  mutton  bone,  with  which  Ben,  who  had 
roused  himself  and  shown  his  surprise  at  being  left  out 
of  the  feast,  was  made  content  on  the  doorstep.  Then 
he  sat  himself  in  his  wooden  arm  chair  again  with  all  the 
•signs  of  a  man  very  tired  in  body,  though  his  talk  was 
vigorous  enough,  and  he  seemed  pleased  to  have  somebody 
with  whom  to  exchange  it. 

Pippin  asked  him  about  the  accident  to  which  he  had 
alluded.  "Well,  it  was  a  bad  business  coming  when  it 
did,"  he  said.  "It's  a  queer  life  I've  had  altogether,  and 
I  can't  be  quite  sure  that  I  acted  right  in  it  when  I 
married  a  lady  I'd  perhaps  no  right  to.  I'll  tell  you  my 
story,  if  you'd  like  to  hear  it,  and  if  you  say  you  think 
I'm  not  much  to  blame,  why  it  will  be  some  relief  to  me; 
for  I  can't  do  as  much  for  my  poor  wife  as  I  should 
like,  and  there  come  times  when  she  feels  it  more  than 
ordinary.  She's  taking  it  hard  just  now,  poor  soul,  and 
.  .  .  Well  now,  I  should  like  to  ask  you  as  a  young  man 
of  education,  which  I  never  had  much  of,  whether  you 
think  I  did  right  or  not  at  that  time  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  of." 

"I'm  pretty  sure  that  whatever  you  did  it  wasn't  for 
wrong,"  said  Pippin;  "but  let  me  hear  all  about  it." 

So  the  bee-keeper  began  his  story. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

PIPPIN    HEARS    A    TALE    AND    GIVES    ADVICE 

"I  was  brought  up  in  a  stable,"  said  the  bee-keeper, 
"and  when  I  was  a  boy  I  loved  horses  better  than  any- 
thing else.  I  love  them  now,  but  somehow  the  wish  to 
spend  my  life  among  them  has  gone  from  me.  I  was 
sent  to  school,  but  learned  very  little,  and  was  taken 
away  as  soon  as  was  allowed,  and  I'm  sorry  for  that  now, 
because  if  I  knew  more  that  comes  out  of  books  there 
wouldn't  be  such  a  difference  as  there  is  between  me  and 
my  wife,  who  was  sent  out  of  England  for  her  education 
and  can  speak  French  just  as  easily  as  her  own  language. 
She's  a  woman  of  very  great  gifts,  and  they  are  all  wasted 
here. 

"It  was  my  father's  wish  to  get  me  into  a  racing  stable, 
for  I  was  a  good  rider  from  an  earty  age,  and  lightly 
built,  and  he  thought  I  might  have  become  a  famous 
jockey.  Perhaps  I  might,  but  the  only  chance  I  ever 
had  was  spoiled  by  my  getting  some  illness,  and  when  I 
was  well  enough  the  place  was  filled  up.  So  I  went  from 
one  private  stable  to  another,  until  I  was  about  twenty, 
when  I  settled  down  as  head-groom  to  a  gentleman — I 
won't  tell  you  his  name — in  this  county,  who  kept  a  good 
stable  of  hunters,  and  there  I  stayed  for  three  years. 

"I  was  a  wild  lad  in  the  way  of  running  after  the 
lasses,  and  my  poor  wife  often  brings  that  up  against 
me  now.     And  I  used  to  drink  too,  not  enough  to  get 

me   into  trouble,   but  more   than   was  good   for   me,   and 

244 


PIPPIN    HEARS    A    TALE  245 

she  brings  that  up  against  me  too,  though  I  haven't  set 
my  lips  to  strong  liquors  for  years  past.  But  the  fact 
is  I  wasn't  much  good  as  a  young  man,  and  the  faults 
I  committed  were  just  such  as  a  lady  born  would  find  it 
least  easy  to  put  up  with.  Still,  she  was  young  herself 
then,  and  I  was  an  active  merry  young  spark,  and  I 
suppose  that  was  something  to  balance  the  bad  in 
me. 

"Well,  if  I  drank  a  little  more  than  was  good  for  me 
now  and  then,  my  master  drank  a  great  deal  more  than 
was  good  for  him  all  the  time.  He  was  a  hard  cruel  man 
besides,  and  they  told  me  that  he'd  driven  his  wife  into 
her  grave,  which  was  before  I  went  there.  The  young 
lady  was  his  only  child,  and  he'd  sent  her  off  to  school 
in  France,  and  kept  her  there  till  she  was  grown  up.  It 
wouldn't  have  been  a  house  for  a  young  girl  to  live  in 
when  I  first  went  there,  for  he  didn't  care  what  opinion 
he  was  held  in  by  his  neighbours,  and  followed  all  the 
desires  of  his  nature,  which  was  low  and  base  in  every  way 
that  I  could  ever  see.  We  men  about  the  place  all  hated 
him,  but  he  paid  us  well  and  left  us  alone  for  the  most 
part,  so  many  stayed  on  with  him  for  years. 

"Then  he  married  again,  and  the  woman  he  married 
wasn't  such  as  to  make  the  house  any  better  for  a  young 
girl  to  come  to.  But  he  had  his  daughter  home,  and  then 
it  was  that  the  trouble  began. 

"Ah,  she  was  a  pretty  young  creature  in  those  days — 
too  pretty  to  suit  her  stepmother,  who  was  jealous  of 
her.  The  neighbours  of  my  master's  quality  would  ask 
her  to  their  houses,  but  they  wouldn't  have  anything  to 
do  with  his  wife,  and  presently  she  wasn't  allowed  to  go 
to   them.      Her   father  didn't   seem   to  have  the   natural 


246  PIPPIN 

affections  of  a  father  for  her,  and  whatever  his  wife 
told  him  to  do  he  did.  He  was  drinking  very  hard  by 
that  time,  and  she  had  a  hold  over  him  and  kept  it. 

"The  only  thing  the  young  lady  was  allowed  to  do 
that  pleased  her  was  to  ride,  and  it  was  me  that  generally 
attended  her.  I  won't  say  I  was  in  love  with  her,  for 
she  was  so  far  above  me  that  it  would  ha'  seemed  waste  of 
time,  and  I  wasn't  losing  time  in  those  days  over  my  love- 
making;  but  of  course  I  admired  her,  and  I  was  flattered 
when  she  took  to  making  me  ride  by  her  side  and  talking 
to  me.  Things  were  in  such  a  bad  way  in  the  house  that 
she  didn't  keep  off  them  for  long,  and  presently  it  was  all 
she  talked  about.  I  was  young  and  easily  worked  on, 
especially  by  a  woman  in  trouble,  and  I  used  to  get  so 
hot  over  her  wrongs  that  for  a  very  little  I  would  have 
had  it  out  with  the  master  and  his  wife  too.  But  that 
wouldn't  have  done  her  much  good.  She  used  to  say  it 
did  do  her  good  to  talk  to  me  about  it  all,  and  of  course 
I  was  flattered  by  that  too,  and  I  dare  say  I  became 
more  free  with  her  than  was  right  for  a  servant  with 
his  young  mistress,  though  I'll  swear  there  was  never 
anything  but  respect  in  my  mind  for  her,  and  I'd  no 
thought  of  stepping  over  the  bounds. 

"Well  this  went  on  for  nearly  a  year  from  the  time 
she  first  came  home.  Then  one  day  we  set  out  for  a 
ride  over  the  moors.  I  rode  behind  her  as  usual  till  we 
were  out  of  sight  of  the  house,  and  then  she  stopped 
for  me  to  come  up  with  her.  I'd  noticed  that  she  looked 
queer-like  when  she  mounted,  and  as  I  rode  up  she  began 
to  cry  and  said  a  dreadful  thing  had  happened.  Her 
stepmother  had  made  a  scene  with  her  about  me,  and 
accused  her  of — well,  I  can't  bring  my  lips  to  say  it.     But 


PIPPIN   HEARS   A   TALE  247 

I  was  to  be  sent  away,  and  she  said  I  was  the  only  friend 
she  had  in  the  place,  and  she  couldn't  bear  it. 

"That  set  me  all  on  fire.  'It's  a  wicked  thing  to  say/ 
I  said,  'but  if  it  isn't  true  of  you  it  is  of  me.  I  do  love 
you,'  I  said,  'and  though  I'm  only  a  servant,  and  you're 
a  lady  born,  if  you  trust  yourself  to  me  I'll  swear  you 
shall  never  regret  it.' 

"Ah,  if  I'd  known!  I  meant  everything  I  said,  but  it 
was  beyond  my  power  to  carry  out.  I've  done  my  best. 
No,  I  don't  think  there's  anything  I  can  reproach  myself 
with  since  then.  I've  done  my  best.  But  my  best  wasn't 
enough.  It  was  then  and  there  I  made  the  mistake,  if 
anywhere." 

"What  mistake?"  asked  Pippin  stoutly.  He  had  found 
himself  liking  this  man  more  and  more  as  he  had  dis- 
closed himself  in  telling  his  story,  and  the  impression 
that  the  wife  had  made  upon  him  was  not  such  as  to 
arouse  an  equal  sympathy.  "What  mistake?  You  say 
she  was  unhappy,  and  you  offered  her  protection  and  the 
love  of  an  honest  man.  What  could  she  have  to  com- 
plain of  in  that?     It  was  an  honour  you  did  her." 

"She  says  I  took  advantage  of  her,  poor  soul.  I 
wasn't  her  equal,  and  that  counts  for  a  lot  in  marriage. 
She  overlooked  that  when  I  was  young  and  ardent.  Oh, 
I  did  love  her,  and  I  love  her  still.  I  suppose  it  had 
been  coming  on  all  the  time,  and  when  she  accepted  me 
as  her  lover  it  all  came  rushing  out.  I  felt  as  if  I  could 
move  mountains  for  her.  If  she  wanted  wealth  I  could 
earn  it  for  her.  I  would  give  her  everything  she  had  had 
at  home  and  more  besides,  for  I'd  give  her  all  the  love 
I  had  in  my  heart,  and  she'd  had  no  love  to  sweeten  her 
life  in  her  home.     I  was  as  proud  and  happy  as  a  king 


248  PIPPIN 

as  we  rode  together,  and  I  couldn't  help  it  showing  when 
I  took  her  home,  for  it  was  that  brought  on  the  catas- 
trophe." 

"She  did  accept  you  then?" 

"Yes.  I  was  to  go  off  and  get  into  a  position  in  which 
I  could  keep  her.  I  knew  I  could  do  it.  I  could  do  any- 
thing. Then  I  was  to  ask  for  her  boldly,  and  if  her 
father  refused,  as  we  thought  he  would,  she  was  to  come 
to  me.  For  she  was  of  age,  and  he  couldn't  have  stopped 
her. 

"But  when  we  rode  up  to  the  house  her  stepmother 
was  waiting  for  us.  And  she  saw.  We  thought  after- 
wards that  she  had  seen  it  coming  and  wanted  it.  There 
was  a  child  of  her  own  on  the  way,  and  it  would  be  to  her 
advantage  to  get  her  step-daughter  out  of  the  house. 
There  was  a  very  ugly  scene,  which  I  won't  describe  to  you. 
I  was  altogether  set  above  myself,  and  I  spoke  to  her 
not  as  my  mistress  but  as  one  who  was  insulting  the  girl 
I  loved,  who  looked  to  me  for  protection.  When  it  was 
at  its  height  she  flounced  into  the  house  and  brought 
her  husband  out,  and  I  spoke  my  mind  to  him  too,  and 
raised  such  a  fury  in  him  that  he  would  have  horse- 
whipped me  if  he  had  dared.  He  did  raise  the  whip  he 
carried  in  his  hand,  but  I  seized  it  from  him  and  broke 
it  and  threw  it  away,  and  he  was  very  near  apoplexy  if 
you  could  trust  to  the  signs. 

"Well,  when  my  poor  girl  had  left  the  house  to  ride 
that  morning  she  had  left  it  for  the  last  time.  They 
wouldn't  let  her  in  again.  They  sent  her  off  with  me, 
anywhere  we  pleased  to  go,  in  her  riding  habit  as  she  was. 
They  wouldn't  even  let  her  have  her  own  clothes.  That 
was  the  woman,  who  showed  her  spite  for  things  I  had 


PIPPIN    HEARS    A    TALE  249 

said  to  her,  in  that  way ;  for  the  father,  angry  as  he  was, 
had  said  they  should  be  sent  after  her. 

"I  won't  go  into  all  that  happened  immediatel}'  after 
that.  People  were  kind  to  us.  We  were  married,  and  I 
got  a  place  in  a  livery  stable  at  that  town  you  are  going 
to  to-night.  An  old  coachman  I  had  been  under  owned 
it,  and  I  made  him  take  me  on.  Seems  to  me  I  could 
have  made  anybody  do  anything  for  me  at  that  time,  for 
it  wasn't  for  me,  it  was  for  her,  who  was  much  more  to 
me  than  I  was  myself.  And  I  knew  that  if  I  laid  my 
course  well,  the  business  would  be  mine  some  day.  Nothing 
could  have  stopped  me  getting  on: — well,  except  what 
did  stop  me. 

"We  were  happy  for  a  year.  I  shall  always  have  that 
to  look  back  upon.  I  earned  good  money,  and  she 
earned  money  too,  as  a  riding-mistress.  Our  story  be- 
came known,  and  people  took  an  interest  in  us,  and  she 
made  a  few  friends  among  people  of  her  own  sort.  I 
kept  out  of  the  way  with  them;  I  wasn't  going  to  drag 
her  down  further  than  I  had  by  marrying  her,  and  I  was 
trying  to  improve  myself  all  the  time  so  as  not  to  shame 
her. 

"Yes,  for  a  year  I  was  happy.  She  made  me  so.  She 
never  complained  of  anything  in  those  days,  and  I  think 
she  was  happy  too.  She  used  to  say  she  was  then, 
though  now — 

"Well,  it  was  too  good  to  last.  She  had  to  lie  up  for 
a  child  coming.  She  was  very  ill,  poor  soul,  and  the 
child  died.  That  was  a  great  grief  to  me.  A  sweet  little 
girl  it  was,  and  though  she  only  lived  a  few  weeks  I  loved 
her  very  deeply.  I'm  sure  she  knew  me  when  I  nursed 
her,  and  once  she  smiled  at  me  when  I  went  to  her.     I'm 


250  PIPPIN 

sure  of  it,  and  I  can  see  her  now,  the  darling  little  soul. 
Ah,  if  she'd  only  lived ! 

"You  may  believe  that  that  heavy  sorrow  made  me  all 
the  more  tender  to  my  poor  wife.  She  seemed  to  get 
over  it  sooner  than  I  did,  but  sometimes  I  think  she 
never  did  really  get  over  it,  for  it  was  never  quite  the 
same  afterwards.  She  recovered  and  went  back  to  her 
riding,  which  she  liked.  It  might  have  gone  better  again 
then,  but  she  had  only  been  at  it  a  week  when  I  had 
my  accident.  I  was  trying  a  hunter  for  a  customer. 
I  got  badly  thrown.  My  hip  was  smashed  up,  and  there 
was  some  trouble  internally  too. 

"I  was  on  my  back  for  the  best  part  of  a  year.  I 
couldn't  expect  my  place  to  be  kept  open  for  me  for  ever ; 
besides  I  was  told  I  could  never  ride  again,  and  it  was 
the  saddle  part  of  the  business  I  looked  after.  I  had 
saved  very  little,  because  we  expected  to  be  making  more 
soon,  and  she  had  been  used  to  so  much  that  it  wasn't 
to  be  expected  she  could  do  with  what  would  have  been 
enough  for  me.  But  after  a  time,  poor  soul,  she  had 
to  live  very  poor,  and  it  was  on  what  she  earned  that 
we  kept  going.  When  it  got  very  bad  she  wrote  to  her 
father,  but  he  sent  back  her  letter  unopened.  I  don't 
know  what  we  should  have  done,  but  an  uncle  of  mine 
who  owned  this  little  farm,  and  came  to  sec  me  when  I 
was  laid  up,  offered  me  a  home  here,  and  said  he  had 
always  meant  to  leave  it  to  me.  He  was  a  queer  crusty 
old  fellow,  but  good-hearted,  and  he  was  kind  to  me  as 
long  as  he  lived,  which  wasn't  for  long  after  we  came 
here.  He  and  my  poor  wife  didn't  get  on.  I'd  brought 
some  of  my  ways  up  to  hers,  but  the  old  man  wouldn't. 
He  seemed  to  take  a  pride  in  making  himself  out  rougher 


PIPPIN   HEARS   A   TALE  251 

than  he  really  was,  and  wanted  her  to  work  in  the  house 
and  about  the  place  just  as  if  she  might  have  been  one  of 
our  sort.  But  I  wouldn't  have  that,  and  whatever  I  could 
do  when  I  began  to  get  about  a  bit  I  did,  and  presently  I 
got  to  doing  it  nearly  all.  He  wasn't  ill  long  when  he 
did  begin  to  fail,  and  I  nursed  him,  and  he  was  grateful. 
He  left  me  everything,  and  there  was  some  money  too 
which  he  had  said  nothing  about ;  so  I  reckoned  we  had 
been  lucky,  and  if  I  worked  hard  we  should  have  a  home 
together  that  she  needn't  be  ashamed  of  after  all. 

"I  wanted  to  buy  some  more  land  with  the  money  the 
old  man  had  left,  and  some  stock.  But  the  time  I'd  been 
ill  and  so  much  had  depended  upon  my  wife,  had  tried 
her  hard,  and  she  wanted  to  go  away  for  a  time.  I 
thought  it  was  best,  and  if  she  had  her  holiday  with  people 
of  her  own  sort  she  might  come  back  happier,  and  we 
could  live  together  again  as  we  had  when  we  were  first 
married.  For  things  had  changed  between  us,  and  she 
wasn't  happy  with  me  any  longer,  poor  soul. 

"So  she  went  away,  and  I  set  myself  to  do  all  I  could 
to  work  the  place  up,  and  looked  forward  to  getting  more 
for  her  in  time.  The  old  man  had  made  most  of  his 
money  out  of  bees,  and  had  taught  me  what  he  knew,  and 
I  was  interested  in  it,  but  thought  I  could  do  more  with 
land  and  stock.  However,  it's  the  bees  that  have  been 
our  standby,  after  all ;  for  I  could  never  get  together 
enough  afterwards  to  buy  more  land." 

"Did  she  spend  it  all,  then?"  asked  Pippin. 
Oh,   you're   not   to   blame   her,"    said   the  bee-keeper. 
She  wasn't  brought  up  to  think  about  money;  and  as 
I  told  you  she  had  been  very  much  tried.     She  had  to  go 


tt 

«2 


252  PIPPIN 

away.      I   could    see   that,   and   we  parted   good    friends. 
When  she  did  come  hack  to  me — " 

"When  was  that?"  asked  Pippin,  remorselessly.  He 
had  heard  nothing  so  far  that  had  made  him  think  well 
of  the  wife,  though  his  sympathy  with  the  husband  had 
risen  all  the  time  he  had  been  telling  his  story. 

"Slit-  was  away  for  a  year — rather  more  than  a  year," 
he  admitted,  reluctantly  as  it  seemed.  "Then  she  came 
back,  and  you  may  judge  that  I  was  overjoyed  to  see 
her."  He  sighed.  "But  I  haven't  been  able  to  make 
her  happy.  I  can't  give  her  what  she  wants  and  what 
she  ought  to  have.  She  misses  too  much.  I  ought  never 
to  have  married  her.     She  was  too  high  above  me." 

His  story  had  come  to  an  end.  He  sat  in  dejection, 
going  over  his  memories,  while  Pippin  nerved  himself  to 
make  fitting  comment  upon  what  he  had  heard.  He  was 
young  and  inexperienced  in  life,  but  his  honesty  was  too 
great  to  allow  him  to  keep  to  himself  what  he  thought. 
He  cleared  his  throat,  at  which  Ben,  who  had  slept 
peacefullv  through  the  bee-keeper's  narrative,  as  none  of 
his  concern,  opened  an  eye,  but  satisfied  that  if  blame 
were  coming  it  was  not  for  him,  closed  it  again. 

Pippin  thought  it  well  to  begin  with  a  recommendation 
of  the  wisdom  of  what  he  was  about  to  say.  "I  am 
younger  than  you,"  he  said,  "but  I  have  been  about  the 
world  and  have  kept  my  eyes  open  to  what  goes  on  in  it. 
And  I  know  a  great  deal  about  love,  though  at  present 
I  am  unattached."  It  cost  him  something  to  say  this, 
but  he  thought  lie  could  help  the  bee-keeper  most  by 
doing  so.  "If  the  lady  who  is  now  your  wife  had  begun 
by  pretending  to  scorn  you,  and  had  then  acknowledged 


PIPPIN    HEARS    A    TALE  253 

that  she  loved  you,  but  was  bound  to  somebody  else, 
you  might — "  He  had  forgotten  what  this  was  to  have 
led  to,  but  the  bee-keeper  did  not  seem  to  have  been  lis- 
tening, and  he  began  again. 

"You  say  you  were  happy  with  her  for  a  year,  and 
you  have  made  it  plain,  although  you  have  not  said  a 
word  of  blame  of  her,  that  when  you  were  ill  and  she 
ought  to  have  been  most  tender  towards  you,  she  was 
thinking  only  of  herself.  And  it  is  also  plain  that  she 
has  thought  about  nobody  but  herself  ever  since.  If 
she  is  not  happy,  with  a  good  man  like  you,  so  anxious 
to  make  her  so,  it  is  her  fault  and  not  yours.  Your  story 
had  made  me  very  indignant  against  her.  I  wouldn't 
interfere  between  a  man  and  his  wife,  but  if  you  want  my 
advice  you  will  change  your  attitude  towards  her  alto- 
gether. You  make  yourself  her  servant.  She  will  be 
much  more  what  she  ought  to  be  towards  you  if  you 
make  her  yours  for  a  change.  What  are  you  doing  with 
the  work  of  the  house  on  you  as  well  as  your  work  outside, 
while  she  doesn't  put  a  ringer  to  it?  When  I  marry,  if 
I  ever  do,  but  I  have  almost  made  up  my  mind  not  to, 
I  shall  be  master  in  my  own  house.  Every  man  ought 
to  be  that.  Women  are  good  for  many  things,  but  it 
is  not  for  them  to  rule  their  husbands." 

The  bee-keeper  looked  at  him,  and  smiled  his  queer 
sidelong  smile.  "Where  you  love  you  want  to  serve,"  he 
said  quietly.  He  rose  from  the  table.  "Well,  it  has  done 
me  good  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said.  "You  are  very  young, 
but  there  is  something  about  you  that  draws  confidence. 
I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy  in  your  life,  young  sir, 
and  when  the  time  comes  you  will  get  a  wife  to  suit  you. 


26 1  P I  p  r  I N 

But  don't  take  her  from  a  station  above  your  own,  Of 
below  it  cither.  If  you  do  the  one  she  may  get  tired  of 
you,  and  if  you  do  the  other  you  may  get  tired  of  her. 
And  now  I  must  go  about  my  work." 

As  Pippin  walked  on,  with  Ben  now  thorouglily  restored 
gambolling  about  him,  he  thought  with  some  vexation  that 
his  good  advice  had  been  treated  with  less-  consideration 
than  it  deserved.  "If  he  would  take  the  stick  to  her,  it 
would  do  her  all  the  good  in  the  world,"  he  said,  and 
flourished  his  own  stick,  to  the  surprise  of  Ben  who 
imagined  himself  guilty  of  some  misdemeanour,  and  came 
wriggling  up  to  apologize  for  it. 

As  he  approached  the  village  lie  saw  groups  of  people 
gathered  about  a  grassy  space  a  little  aside  from  the 
road,  from  which  came  the  music  of  a  fiddle,  and  m 
which  country  dancing  was  going  on.  He  was  somewhat 
inclined  to  join  in  it,  but  the  evening  was  drawing  on 
and  he  had  some  miles  still  to  go;  and  besides,  the  simple 
play  of  boys  and  girls  was  not  for  him,  disillusioned  as 
he  was  and  feeling  himself  much  aged  by  what  had  be- 
fallen him.  But  he  stood  for  a  minute  to  watch  from 
a  distance,  and  thought  he  saw  the  bee-keeper's  wife,  in 
her  large  flowered  hat,  footing  the  measure,  which  did 
not  incline  him  any  the  more  graciously  towards  her, 
when  he  remembered  her  husband  working  for  her  in  her 
home. 

A  tall  stout  man  in  the  dress  of  a  farmer  came  down 
the  path  towards  him,  with  a  sheep  dog  at  his  heels. 
Ben,  not  yet  of  an  age  to  have  learned  reticence  towards 
those  of  his  kind,  made  overtures  of  friendship,  which 
the  other  dog,  too  old  and  patient  to  resent  the  indiscre- 


PIPPIN   HEARS   A   TALE  255 

tions  of  youth,  received  with  a  remote  air,  but  gave  a 
little  growl  of  warning  when  they  were  persisted  in. 

His  master  rebuked  him,  which  served  for  an  intro- 
duction between  him  and  Pippin,  and  they  walked  on 
together.  He  was  a  hearty  rugged  man  with  very  blue 
eyes  in  his  red  face,  and  strong  white  teeth.  He  spoke 
in  broad  dialect  and  told  Pippin  that  he  had  never  been 
further  than  twenty  miles  from  where  they  were,  and  never 
wished  to  go  that  far  again.  He  seemed  to  be  very  well 
content  with  himself  and  his  lot  in  life,  and  told  Pippin 
all  about  his  farm  and  his  stock  and  the  money  he  had 
lying  in  the  bank.  Then  Pippin  said  something  about 
the  bee-keeper  and  his  wife,  and  the  farmer's  face  changed. 
"That's  a  woman  who  ought  to  have  her  neck  wrung," 
he  said,  and  Pippin  was  pleased  to  have  his  opinion  of 
her  endorsed,  though  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  to  express 
it  so  strongly. 

"How  the  old  man  hated  her!"  said  the  farmer.  "It 
was  dog  and  cat  between  them  all  the  time,  and  he  would- 
n't ha'  put  up  with  her  but  he  was  fond  of  her  husband. 
She  went  away  for  nigh  on  two  years  when  the  old  man 
died,  and  spent  all  the  money  he'd  saved  up.  A  good 
thing  if  she'd  never  come  back !  But  nobody  else  wanted 
her,  and  the  poor  fellow  couldn't  make  enough  to  keep 
her  in  idleness  away  from  him,  or  I  make  no  doubt  she'd 
have  stayed  away  from  him  for  ever,  and  gone  on  bleed- 
ing him." 

"He  told  me  his  story,  and  asked  my  advice,"  said  Pip- 
pin with  an  air  of  some  importance.  "I  told  him  that 
if  he  were  to  make  her  serve  him  for  a  change  instead  of 
his  serving  her  it  would  do  her  a  lot  of  good." 


206  pirriN 

"Then  you  spoke  a  true-  word,"  said  the  farmer,  with  a 
quizzical  look  at  him.  "And  what  might  he  have  said 
to  that?" 

Pippin  searched  in  his  brain.  "He  said  something 
about  liking  to  serve  a  person  you  loved,"  he  said. 

"That's  it,"  said  the  farmer.  "He  couldn't  do  it.  He's 
too  good  a  man.  It  would  do  her  good,  but  it  wouldn't 
do  him  good.  Come  to  think  of  it,  he's  better  off  than 
she  is.  For  she's  thinking  about  herself  all  the  time,  and 
he's  thinking  about  somebody  else.  You  might  not  think 
it  to  look  at  me  and  hear  me  talk,  but  I'm  a  man  who 
holds  my  religion,  and  to  my  mind  that's  the  kernel  of 
the  whole  nut  of  it.  Now  this  is  where  I  turn  off,  but 
why  shouldn't  you  come  along  with  me  and  take  a  bite 
and  a  sup,  and  sleep  in  a  good  feather  bed  instead  of  the 
flock  you'll  get  in  that  place  of  robbery?" 

Pippin  thanked  him  warmly  for  his  hospitality,  but 
said  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  press  on.  He  was 
not  yet  cured  of  his  desire  for  solitude,  and  for  chewing 
the  cud  of  his  own  reflections;  and  he  had  been  talking 
or  listening  to  talk  for  two  hours  past.  So  the  farmer 
left  him,  and  he  walked  on  alone  over  the  now  darkling 
moor,  with  something  to  add  to  his  thoughts  as  he  went. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    GEEAT    MUSICIAN 

Pippin  walked  on  across  the  high  moor.  He  was  not 
quite  satisfied  with  himself,  for  he  thought  he  might 
have  done  more  to  show  his  disapproval  of  the  bee- 
keeper's wife,  though  it  is  difficult  to  see  what  more  he 
could  have  done  unless  he  had  rebuked  the  lady  to  her 
face;  and  that  would  scarcely  have  helped  matters.  But 
when  the  moral  sense  of  youth  is  aroused  it  can  only  be 
quieted  by  giving  it  vent,  and  presently  Pippin  came 
dimly  to  see  that  it  was  only  himself  that  he  would  have 
satisfied  by  expressing  his  indignation,  and  left  consid- 
eration of  the  matter. 

He  returned  once  more  to  thoughts  of  his  own  affairs, 
but  found  that  the  break  in  that  obsession  had  somewhat 
lessened  its  hold  upon  him.  He  did  not  want  this.  He 
wanted  to  go  on  loving  Rosie  Schwenck,  and  perhaps 
some  day  to  meet  her  and  prove  to  her  that  he  no  longer 
loved  her ;  nor  did  he  perceive  that  these  two  desires  were 
contradictory.  But  for  the  time  he  allowed  himself  to 
anticipate  some  interest  in  life  apart  from  her,  and  this 
was  perhaps  the  first  step  in  his  cure. 

He  was  looking  forward  with  some  anticipations  of 
pleasure  to  the  seaside  town  to  which  the  road  was  lead- 
ing him.  He  had  been  on  the  lonely  moors  for  some  days, 
and  was  ready  for  a  spell  of  gaiety.  It  was  to  be  other 
people   whose   gaiety   he  would  look   on   at;  for   himself 

such  moods  were  at  an  end.     His  youth  was  behind  him; 

257 


258  PIPPIN 

he  was  now  a  strong  stern  man  who  would  never  again 
yield  himself  to  lightness  of  heart  or  behaviour.  But  he 
pressed  forward  over  the  darksome  expanse  of  moor  to 
where  he  would  be  greeted  by  the  light  of  the  town  and  be 
once  more  among  the  heartening  crowd. 

He  came  to  the  top  of  a  hill,  and  there  was  the  wide 
sweep  of  the  bay  below  him,  pricked' out  with  lights  where 
the  promenades  followed  the  line  of  the  shore,  and  behind 
them  the  streets  of  houses  large  and  small,  also  lit  up, 
more  dimly,  but  so  as  to  cast  a  radiance  over  them,  de- 
scending from  the  lower  slopes  of  the  hill  to  the  water's 
edge.  Pippin  paused  for  a  moment  to  take  it  all  in. 
He  felt  some  exhilaration  at  the  sight  of  the  town  lighted 
up,  which  was  enhanced  by  the  contrasting  solemnity  of 
the  sea  lying  still  and  immense  in  the  summer  night.  But 
it  was  late.  Fatigue  and  hunger  had  come  upon  him 
again,  and  he  was  soon  on  his  way  down  to  his  supper 
and  his  bed. 

The  next  morning  he  awoke  to  the  sound  of  the  waves 
pulsing  upon  the  shore  immediately  in  front  of  his  win- 
dow. A  fresh  breeze  had  sprung  up  with  the  morning, 
but  there  was  never  a  cloud  in  the  sky  and  the  sea  was 
dancing  with  myriad  points  of  light,  and  dotted  with 
the  sails  of  the  fishing  boats.  It  was  still  early,  but 
who  could  lie  in  bed  with  that  fresh  salty  air  coming  in 
at  the  window,  and  the  sun  and  the  music  of  the  waves 
outside?  In  a  few  minutes  Pippin  and  Ben  were  on  the 
sands,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  in  the  water.  Then  the 
advancing  burden  of  age  which  Pippin  had  felt  so  heavy 
upon  him  during  the  past  days  dropped  away.  He  was 
happy  again,  laughing  for  the  pleasure  of  his  youth  and 
strength  as  he  breasted  the  salt  water  and  played  with  his 


THE   GREAT   MUSICIAN  259 

dog,  inseparable  from  him  in  one  element  as  upon  the 
other. 

He  stayed  for  some  days  in  this  town,  and  made 
friends  among  the  holiday  makers,  and  particularly  with 
the  children  who  played  upon  the  sands,  helping  them 
with  their  games  and  their  castle  buildings,  a  companion 
to  be  greeted  with  shouts  of  welcome  whenever  he  ap- 
peared among  them,  and  to  be  followed  and  imitated  in 
all  things.  It  was  with  the  more  simple  folk  that  he  con- 
sorted, whose  recreation  chiefly  was  to  sit  and  walk  by 
the  sea,  to  rest  themselves  for  a  time  from  the  toil  to 
which  they  would  presently  return.  Even  the  boys  and 
girls  of  his  own  age  led  an  idle  life  of  preference,  though 
there  was  much  pairing  among  them,  and  their  brains 
were  busy  enough  if  their  bodies  were  quiescent.  In  the 
evening  they  would  resort  to  the  cheaper  forms  of  enter- 
tainment provided  for  such  as  they,  but  Pippin  made  no 
confessions  of  having  recently  been  one  of  those  who' 
provided  them.  He  was  coming  to  be  a  trifle  ashamed  of 
that  episode  in  his  life,  but  also  hugged  some  pride  at 
having  been  behind  the  scenes  and  come  out  again  among 
the  spectators,  disillusioned. 

In  his  modest  lodging  was  a  young  man  who  had  not 
come  to  this  place  on  a  holiday,  but  to  prepare  the  way 
for  a  great  musician,  whose  name  in  letters  a  foot  high 
was  on  all  the  hoardings.  The  young  man's  name  was 
Dent.  The  musician's  name  was  much  more  complicated, 
and  even  Dent  seldom  called  him  by  it,  but  in  conversa- 
tion shortened  it  to  Baffy. 

Dent  was  a  pale  young  man  with  long  hair  and  a  very 
energetic,  almost  a  fierce,  manner.  He  might  have  been 
a  musician  himself  from  his  appearance,  but  he  was  not. 


2G0  PIPPIN 

He  was  a  'writer,  and  on  his  own  showing  a  highly  skilled 
one,  though  a  general  conspiracy  on  the  part  of  all  those 
who  had  to  do  with  introducing  the  work  of  a  writer  to 
the  public  had  hitherto  prevented  his  gaining  his  due 
rewards. 

"But  some  day  you  will  see,"  said  Dent,  vehemently. 
"I  shall  not  always  have  to  do  this  sort  of  thing  for  a 
living.  In  my  own  way  I  shall  be  as  great  a  man  as 
Baffy,  and  if  I  don't  make  quite  so  much  money  I  shall 
make  enough.  It  is  not  wealth  that  I  desire.  To  my 
mind  a  great  artist,  in  whatever  sphere,  gets  his  chief 
pleasure  in  practising  his  art,  and  all  he  ought  to  want 
to  gain  from  it  is  what  will  enable  him  to  devote  himself 
to  it  free  from  the  sordid  cares  of  life." 

Pippin  admired  this  philosophy.  Dent  was  a  young 
man  of  superior  education,  and  it  seemed  to  Pippin  that 
he  might  very  well  rise  to  be  somebody  in  the  calling  he 
had  chosen  for  himself,  if  he  could  only  find  time  to 
practise  it.  But  he  was  kept  very  busy  going  from  one 
place  to  another  to  prepare  the  way  for  the  glorious  ap- 
pearances of  his  master,  who  paid  him  well  but  expected 
to  be- diligently  served  in  return. 

Pippin  could  not  quite  make  out  his  attitude  to  the 
great  musician.  Sometimes  he  would  speak  of  him  almost 
worshipfully,  at  others  with  something  like  contempt. 
"But  I  don't  see  very  much  of  him  when  we  are  travel- 
ling,'* he  said.  "When  he  comes  in  I  go  out.  On  the 
whole  I  prefer  that,  for  I  get  a  few  hours  to  my- 
self." 

"I  suppose  he  really  is  a  very  great  player,"  said  Pip- 
pin, who  had  been  impressed  by  the  advertisement  that 
Dent  put  forth  so  lavishly. 


THE   GREAT   MUSICIAN  261 


ar 


'The  greatest  of  all,"  said  Dent. 

"Then  why—?" 

"Why  don't  I  want  to  see  more  of  him  than  I  need? 
Why  because  I  can  distinguish  between  a  man  and  his 
art.  Baffy  is  a  great  artist —  a  very  great  artist ;  but — . 
Now  I'll  tell  you  something  about  him.  Some  time  ago  I 
wrote  a  little  story  founded  on  his  career,  and  like  a  fool 
I  read  it  to  him,  because  I  was  rather  proud  of  it.  He 
was  annoyed,  and  forbade  me  to  publish  it.  That's 
Baffy." 

"Why  did  he  refuse  to>  have  it  published?" 

"Why?  Because  he  doesn't  like  it  to  be  known  that  his 
origin  was  a  low  one.  To  my  mind  it  is  more  to  his 
credit  to  have  made  himself  what  he  is  than  if  he  had 
been  born  to  it.  He  couldn't  have  been  born  to  the  artistic 
eminence  that  is  his;  he  would  have  to  work  for  that  in 
any  case.  As  for  the  rest,  there  are  thousands  of 
people  of  no  merit  whatever  as  high  in  the  world  as 
he  is.  It  is  just  one  of  the  things  that  has  come  to  him, 
and  so  is  the  money  that  he  makes.  If  I  ever  become 
famous  as  a  writer,  I  will  not,  no  I  will  not  allow  myself 
to  be  led  away  into  prizing  the  mere  accidents  of  my  suc- 
cess. But  you  shall  hear  my  story,  and  say  whether  you 
don't  think  it  would  reflect  more  credit  upon  a  great 
artist  to  have  the  truth  told  about  him  in  that  way  than 
to  conceal  it." 

They  were  sitting  by  Pippin's  window,  looking  out  over 
the  sea,  upon  which  the  moon  was  shining.  Dent  went 
to  fetch  his  manuscript,  and  presently  returned.  "It  is 
not  very  long,"  he  said  in  apology. 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,"  said  Pippin  politely. 

Then  Dent  read  his  little  story,  which  he  called 


262  PIPPIN 

THE    MUSICIAN 

He  was  born  in  a  village  in  the  middle  of  a  bare, 
almost  treeless  plain.  The  brown  fields  stretched  away 
on  either  side,  their  dull  monotony  broken  by  a  sparse 
network  of  roads,  here  and  there  a  farmstead,  a  hamlet, 
or  a  little  town,  and  some  leagues  away  the  silver  thread 
of  a  river. 

But  at  the  edge  of  the  plain,  far  distant,  were  the 
mountains,  pointing  white  pinnacles  above  the  desolate 
winter  earth,  or  in  summer  swimming  in  blue  vapour. 

His  father  was  the  village  schoolmaster,  a  disappointed 
embittered  man,  miserably  poor,  nursing  a  sullen  rage 
against  the  fate  that  had  cut  him  off  from  everything 
that  might  have  solaced  his  life,  a  daily  menace  to  the 
children  whom  he  taught,  an  hourly  terror  to  his  own, 
who  had  lost  their  mother  and  were  dependent  upon  him 
alone. 

The  child  was  often  hungry,  in  the  winter  nearly  always 
cold  and  miserable,  and  more  unhappy  even  than  a  child 
need  be  to  whom  cold  and  hunger  are  an  accepted  part  of 
life. 

But  the  mountains  ringing  the  plain  in  whose  vastness 
his  poor  little  body  seemed  to  be  imprisoned  lifted  his 
spirit ;  the  mountains  and  the  mild  airs  of  spring,  the 
flowers  in  the  fields,  and  the  song  of  the  few  birds  whose 
notes  wire  heard  in  that  sad  country.  And  when,  in  the 
church,  the  congregation  .->ang  in  unison,  unaccompanied, 
£he  music  of  the  Mass,  he  was  strangely  moved.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  somewhere  in  the  world  there  was  happiness, 
if  he  could  only  find  it  some  day. 

His  chief  friend  was  a  little  crippled  tailor,  who  played 


THE   GREAT   MUSICIAN  263 

a  cheap  fiddle.  It  was  the  only  musical  instrument  he 
had  ever  heard.  He  persuaded  his  friend  to  teach  him 
what  he  knew,  and  he  could  soon  play  better  than  his 
master.  But  he  was  not  satisfied.  He  craved  for  some- 
thing, he  knew  not  what ;  for  something  beyond  those  thin 
unsupported  notes. 

When  he  was  ten  years  old,  his  father  was  appointed 
to  a  school  in  a  small  town.  On  his  first  Sunday  in 
church  the  boy  heard  the  Mass  sung  to  an  organ.  The 
organ  had  only  one  row  of  pipes  and  no  pedals,  but  the 
harmony  of  notes,  which  was  new  to  him,  was  more  beauti- 
ful than  anything  he  could  have  conceived.  Some  weeks 
later,  when  he  had  arduously  scraped  acquaintance  with 
the  organist,  he  listened  to  a  fugue  of  Bach's,  played  on 
an  old  piano.  Limitless  horizons  were  opening  out  before 
him. 

Three  years  later  the  organist  died,  and  he  was 
appointed  to  fill  his  place.  His  musical  precocity  was  a 
source  of  pride  to  his  employers,  who  also  saved  money 
by  filling  the  place  of  a  man  with  a  child. 

Not  until  he  was  sixteen  years  of  age  had  he  ever  been 
away  from  the  place  in  which  he  was  born  and  the  place 
in  which  he  lived  and  drudged.  Then  one  day  in  May 
he  walked  thirty  miles  to  the  nearest  big  town,  where  a 
great  virtuoso  was  to  give  a  piano  recital.  He  sat  in  one 
of  the  cheapest  seats,  tired  and  dusty,  and  was  straight- 
way transported  into  paradise. 

When  the  Master  came  out  of  the  hall  and  crossed  the 
pavement  to  his  carriage,  a  youth  in  shabby  clothes,  thin 
and  poor,  with  bared  untidy  hair  and  wild  eyes,  pushed 
through  the  cheering  crowd  that  thronged  around  him, 
seized  his  hand  and  kissed  it.     Before  the  great  man  had 


264.  PIPPIN 

recovered  from  his  surprise,  the  spectre  had  disappeared. 

All  through  the  night,  as  he  tramped  the  leagues  of 
white  road,  lit  by  the  stars,  back  to  his  home  oblivious  of 
hunger  and  fatigue,  that  glorious  music  rang  in  his  head. 
He  heard  the  silvery  chime  and  tinkle  of  the  treble,  the 
metallic  clangour  of  the  bass,  the  more  tuneful  mid-notes, 
the  sad  and  merry  airs,  the  sweet  cadences.  He  marvelled 
at  an  instrument  so  mechanical  which  yet  at  the  bidding 
of  a  master  registered  such  an  infinite  gradation  of 
sounds  and  moods.  And  he  marvelled  at  the  genius  that 
could  so  concentrate  itself  as  to  evoke  that  perfect 
response.  What  had  he  known  of  music  before  he  had 
heard  the  king  of  instruments  and  the  king  of  piano- 
players?     Thenceforward  his  path  was  clear. 

Two  years  later  he  was  living  in  a  garret  in  a  poor 
part  of  a  great  musical  city.  He  had  a  table,  two  chairs, 
and  a  box  for  furniture.  His  bed  was  on  the  floor.  The 
boards  were  uncarpeted,  the  window  uncurtained.  But 
he  had  a  piano,  upon  which  he  practised  for  many  hours 
a  day. 

The  privations  he  endured  were  greater  than  those  he 
had  known  in  his  childhood.  He  was  always  hungry  now, 
except  when  his  master  invited  him  to  a  meal;  in  the  win- 
ter he  was  always  cold,  for  he  could  not  afford  a  fire.  No 
one  who  had  not  been  brought  up  to  a  life  of  hardship 
could  have  gone  through  those  terrible  3Tears  of  labour. 

At  times  he  was  more  unhappy  than  he  had  ever  been, 
for  he  knew  despair.  This  was  when  the  unspeakable 
drudgery  to  which  he  submitted  himself  seemed  to  be  fail- 
ing in  its  end,  when  he  would  practise  for  days  and  weeks 
together  without  a  sign  of  progress,  or  when  his  master 
rated  him. 


THE    GREAT   MUSICIAN  265 

Then  he  would  wake  up  one  morning  and  sit  at  the 
keyboard,  to  find  that  he  had  moved  a  step  forward.  Or 
an  encouraging  word  would  blow  the  failing  spark  of  his 
ambition  into  new  flame. 

With  immense  meticulous  labour  he  brought  his  muscles 
under  control,  till  his  forearms  were  like  bundles  of  steel 
rods,  his  neck  and  shoulders  inured  to  fatigue,  his  wrists 
and  fingers  supple  and  strong.  He  could  run  his  hands 
over  the  keys  with  a  touch  as  light  as  gossamer,  and 
every  note  clear  and  even ;  and  he  could  arouse  such  clang- 
ing reverberations  as  would  have  seemed  impossible  to 
one  of  his  slender  physique. 

It  took  him  two  years  to  reach  this  point,  and  he  was 
often  in  such  pain  and  trouble  at  the  end  of  the  day  that 
he  wept  as  he  laid  himself  down  on  his  bed. 

In  the  remaining  two  years  of  his  apprenticeship  his 
life  was  brighter,  but  still  full  of  difficulty,  and  sometimes 
of  distress.  He  had  to  learn  to  interpret  the  meaning  of 
the  composers  whose  works  he  played.  He  descended  into 
the  depths  again,  for  half-starved  and  miserable  in  body 
as  he  was  his  brain  was  now  less  alert  to  grasp  and  invent, 
and  his  master,  who  never  spared  his  pupils,  stormed  at 
him  for  stupidity.  "You  can  play  the  notes  better 
than  anybody,"  he  shouted,  "but  you  cannot  play  the 
music.     Go  back  and  think." 

He  was  kicked  away  in  the  third  summer  to  take  a 
month's  holiday,  and  returned  with  his  understanding 
braced.  But  still  there  remained  months  and  months  of 
arduous  toil,  and  a  slow  unequal  climb  to  the  point  at 
which  he  should  be  able  to  see,  and  take  advantage  of 
what  he  saw. 

Sometimes,  after  long  effort  and  endless  repetition,  the 


26G  PIPPIN 

perfect  phrase  would  ring  out  as  if  by  magic,  disappear, 
perhaps  for  days,  come  out  again,  and  gradually  be  cap- 
tured wholly,  a  matchless  possession.  Then  the  whole 
would  be  built  up,  and  he  was  eager,  grudged  no  pains, 
laughed  for  pleasure,  and  felt  the  glow  of  inspiration. 

Those  gleams  of  pleasure  became  more  frequent  as  the 
months  went  by,  and  during  the  last  summer  of  his  pre- 
paration he  would  sometimes  lean  out  of  his  window  high 
above  the  narrow  street  and  dream  dreams  of  the  future. 
For  he  was  still  very  young,  although  he  had  gone  through 
a  life  time  of  labour. 

Now,  whenever  he  plays  in  public,  a  slender  loose- 
haired  figure,  with  thin  hands  and  melancholy  far-seeing 
eyes,  alone  on  the  platform,  while  in  rows  and  tiers  before 
him  the  packed  audience  listens  entranced  to  the  magic  of 
his  music,  he  is  greeted  as  a  portent,  half-divine.  Stories 
are  told  of  his  royal  progress  through  the  world,  of  the 
fabulous  sum  he  gains  for  a  performance  lasting  two 
hours. 

"It  is  easy  to  make  a  fortune  with  such  a  gift  as  that," 
some  say.  But  others  are  wiser.  They  know  that  in  art, 
as  in  life,  there  is  no  road  to  perfection  except  through 
suffering. 

Dent  folded  his  paper.  "What  do  you  think  of  it?" 
he  asked,  after  a  short  pause. 

Pippin  aroused  himself.  "It  is  wonderful,"  he  said. 
"I  had  no  idea  that  all  that  labour  went  to  the  making 
of  a  piano-player." 

Dent,  upon  whose  face  had  come  a  simper  of  grati- 
fication at  the  first  three  words,  looked  a  trifle  disap- 
pointed  at  those  which   followed.      "Yes,  it  is  sometlung 


THE   GREAT   MUSICIAN  267 

like  that,"  he  said.  "I  got  it  all  out  of  Baffy  at  one 
time  or  another,  except  the  lonely  country  at  the  begin- 
ning, which  was  an  idea  of  my  own,  for  I  believe  Baffy 
was  born  in  a  slum  of  a  great  city.  But  I  think  the 
story  is  improved  by  my  alteration,  don't  you?" 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  said  Pippin;  "but  you  ought  not  to 
have  told  me." 

Dent  looked  at  him  shrewdly.  "That  is  a  very  good 
criticism,"  he  said.  "We  are  told  that  art  should  conceal 
itself.  But  I  was  treating  you  rather  as  a  critic  of  my 
work,  which  does  not  profess  to  be  a  close  transcript  from 
life,  though  of  course  it  must  be  made  to  look  like  it. 
What  I  meant  to  ask  you  was  whether  you  don't  think 
it  is  well  written." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Pippin,  "but  I  don't  under- 
stand much  about  those  things." 

"Well,"  said  Dent,  after  a  pause  of  reflection,  "the 
story  did  make  an  impression  on  you.  You  said  that  it 
was  wonderful — the  career  of  the  musician.  That  was 
exactly  the  effect  I  wished  to  make  on  my  readers.  As 
to  how  I  did  it,  that  is  my  affair,  and  I  see  that  you  refuse 
to  make  it  yours.  You  are  quite  right.  It  is  not  the 
business  of  the  reading  public  to  judge  of  how  things  are 
done.  It  should  be  enough  for  them  that  they  are  done. 
You  have  pleased  me  very  much  by  the  way  you  have 
taken  it." 

Pippin  was  relieved  to  find  him  so  readily  pleased,  for 
he  had  seemed  to  be  invited  to  a  higher  degree  of  appre- 
ciation than  he  had  actually  expressed.  "I  suppose  you 
must  go  through  a  very  difficult  training  for  writing  as 
well  as  for  music,"  he  hazarded. 

"You   go    through   hell,"   said   Dent   quite   cheerfully. 


2G8  p  i  r  r  i  n 

"You  will  never  be  much  good  at  any  art  unless  you  de- 
scend  sometimes  into  the  depths.  I  have  tried  to  express 
that  in  mv  little  story.  We  artists  are  not  as  other  men. 
Our  rewards  are  greater,  but  our  pains  are  greater  too. 
I  would  not  change  my  lot  in  life,  uncongenial  as  much 
of  it  is  at  present,  for  the  even  prosperity  and  content- 
ment that  is  yours.  Yet  yours  is  a  good  life  too,  and  as 
you  were  born  without  the  creative  instinct  to  urge  you 
on,  perhaps  you  may  be  thankful  for  it." 

"It  isn't  only  artists  who  go  through  hell,  as  you  ex- 
press it,"  said  Pippin.     "My  own  experience — " 

He  broke  off.  Dent  was  not  the  man  to  whom  he  could 
unburden  himself.  He  might  have  been  interested  in  his 
story,  but  probably  only  as  material  for  making  one  of 
his  own.    "Let  us  go  and  walk  by  the  sea,"  he  said  instead. 

Pippin  heard  the  great  man  play,  and  by  a  special 
favour  was  introduced  to  him  afterwards,  by  Dent,  who 
pointed  out  the  advantage  of  being  able  to  tell  his  grand- 
children in  after  years  that  he  had  shaken  hands  with  a 
very  great  man.  Dent  had  a  great  love  of  music,  though 
no  skill  in  it  himself,  and  his  attitude  of  reverence  towards 
his  master  was  at  its  height  when  he  was  under  the 
influence  of  his  wonderful  playing.  He  sat  by  Pippin's 
side  during  the  recital,  and  breathed  constant  amazement, 
and  gratitude  for  the  treat  he  was  enjoying.  Pippin  was 
also  amazed  at  the  miraculous  skill  of  the  performance, 
which  was  unlike  anything  he  had  ever  heard  before,  but 
he  was  unable  to  disengage  his  opinion  of  the  artist  from 
that  of  the  man,  who  was  quite  unlike  the  musician  in 
Dent's  story.  He  was  short  and  stout,  and  it  was  aston- 
ishing that  such  strength  and  delicacy  of  touch  could  be 
produced  from  those  pudgy  fingers.     There  was  an  air  of 


THE    GREAT   MUSICIAN  269 

great  self-satisfaction  about  him,  and  his  highest  moments 
appeared  to  be  those  in  which  he  was  receiving  the  plaudits 
of  the  audience,  which  he  did  with  gestures  that  reminded 
Pippin  of  the  Signor  Franginelli. 

He  received  Pippin  graciously,  and  asked  him  imme- 
diately what  he  had  thought  of  his  playing.  Pippin  stam- 
mered out  some  words  of  appreciation  which  seemed  to 
satisfy  him,  and  then  he  turned  eagerly  to  an  official  who 
had  come  to  give  him  an  account  of  the  money  that  had 
been  earned  by  the  sale  of  seats.  The  result  did  not  please 
him,  and  Dent  quickly  drew  Pippin  away. 

"Money  and  applause!"  said  Dent  scornfully.  "They 
are  the  curse  of  all  great  artists.  Baffy  will  be  in  a 
very  bad  temper  to-morrow,  and  the  fact  that  he  played 
divinely  to-night  will  not  soften  it.  I  am  glad  that  he 
wants  me  for  nothing  to-night.  Before  we  go  to  bed  I 
should  like  to  read  you  one  or  two  more  little  things  I 
have  written.     I  believe  you  will  like  them." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


A   CLOSE   CAXX 


Pippin  stayed  a  few  days  longer  in  this  sea-side  town 
after  his  friend  Dent  had  left  it  to  prepare  the  way 
for  his  employer  elsewhere.  lie  found  the  life  of  it  very 
pleasant,  but  it  was  a  holiday  life,  and  it  was  not  precisely 
a  holiday  for  which  he  had  left  his  home.  The  money 
his  father  had  given  him  was  not  enough  for  that,  and 
it  was  disappearing  at  a  remarkable  rate,  although  he 
was  committing  no  particular  extravagances.  If  he  had 
kept  what  he  had  earned  during  his  few  weeks  with  the 
circus  he  would  have  had  enough  upon  which  to  enjoy 
himself  here  some  time  longer ;  but  those  earnings  had 
been  expended  upon  Ben,  and  he  did  not  regret  them. 
Ben  had  been  bought  for  money  from  a  man  who  had 
seen  in  him  only  a  valuable  dog.  Pippin  Mould  no  more 
have  sold  him  than  if  he  had  been  a  human.  Friends 
are  not  sold  for  money. 

Ben  was  in  the  way  of  enjoying  every  phase  of  life 
in  which  his  master  was  concerned,  but  he  enjoyed  some 
more  than  others,  and  when  they  took  the  road  again 
together  it  was  with  his  ecstatic  approval. 

"Now  we  are  going  to  have  some  real  fun  once  more, 

and  we  shall  be  everything  to  each  other.     All  these  people 

you  have  been  making  friends  with  have  treated  me  with 

great  amiability,  and  of  course  I  have  responded,  because 

anybody    that   is   gocd  enough   for  you    is   good   enough 

for  nic.     But  to  be  perfectly  candid  with  you  they  bore 

2*70 


A   CLOSE    CALL  271 

me,  and  I  think  you  are  inclined  to  depend  too  much 
upon  them.  I  can  give  you  all  you  want  in  the  way  of 
companionship,  and  if  you  ever  regret  trusting  yourself 
to  me,  I'm  a  bandy-legged  German  dachshund,  and  not  a 
fine  upstanding  English  retriever." 

They  walked  along  the  sea-front  very  early  on  a  fine 
sparkling  morning.  There  was  scarcely  any  one  about. 
The  holiday-makers  would  be  sleeping  for  some  hours 
longer;  their  windows  were  curtained  and  blinded,  and 
it  was  too  early  yet  even  for  those  who  prepared  the  scene 
for  their  daily  pleasure  to  have  set  about  it.  The  fishing- 
boats  were  putting  out  from  the  harbour  at  the  end  of 
the  town,  but  the  pleasure-bo^ts  lay  on  the  beach,  and 
only  the  sea-birds  were  busy  over  the  long  stretch  of 
shore  below  the  railed  masonry  of  the  promenade.  Pres- 
ently Pippin  left  the  pavement  and  walked  on  the  hard 
sand  uncovered  by  the  tide,  while  Ben  careered  over  it 
far  and  wide,  always  in  search  of  something  and  forget- 
ting what  it  was  when  he  had  started  in  chase  of  it. 

On  the  sands  by  the  rocks  and  the  long  sea-ripples 
Pippin  seemed  already  to  have  recovered  the  freedom  that 
is  not  to  be  found  in  towns,  though  the  town  stretched 
away  for  another  mile  on  his  right  hand.  However  over- 
grown a  sea-side  town  may  become  it  must  stop  short 
at  the  line  claimed  by  the  water.  Beyond  that  there  is 
space  and  freedom,  not  altered  from  the  time  before 
a  brick  of  it  was  laid  or  a  human  foot  trod  its  brink. 
So  they  are  wise  who  take  their  refreshment  from  the  sea- 
side, however  they  may  crowd  themselves  behind  it.  As 
he  walked  along  the  shore  Pippin  was  inclined  to  Ben's 
opinion,   that    this    setting   forth   on  foot   was    the    real 


272  PIPPIN 

way  to  enjoyment,  and  his  spirit  rose  to  it  hardly  less 
than  on  his  first  taking  of  the  road. 

But  this  day's  walk  was  to  be  the  last  he  was  to  enjoy 
for  some  time.  Trouble  awaited  him,  though  he  was 
far  from  expecting  it  in  his  happy  morning  mood. 

He  kept  to  the  shore  all  day,  walking  now  upon  ..and, 
now  along  rocky  shelves,  and  sometimes  upon  grass  at 
the  foot  of  the  cliffs.  It  was  a  wild  and  rugged  coast, 
and  he  passed  only  one  little  fishing  town  huddled  in  a 
cleft  of  the  rocks,  and  a  few  straggling  hamlets  or  groups 
of  cottages  in  the  twenty  miles  or  so  that  he  covered 
before  the  evening.  Then  his  way  was  barred  by  a  great 
jutting  point  of  rock.  He  had  either  to  climb  up  to 
the  high  ground  and  leave  the  shore,  or  make  his  way 
round  the  point  among  huge  tumbled  boulders.  The  tide 
was  on  the  ebb,  and  he  chose  to  go  round,  but  wished 
later  that  he  had  ascended  the  cliff,  for  at  times  he  had 
to  jump  from  one  rock  to  the  other,  and  even  climb  some 
of  them,  and  progress  was  slow  and  difficult.  Bin  thor- 
oughly disliked  it,  and  sometimes  hung  back  whimpering 
and  had  to  be  lifted. 

He  got  round  the  point  at  last  and  saw  that  after 
a  short  distance  he  would  be  walking  on  flat  rock  again ; 
but  the  great  stones  were  piled  up  here  more  closely  than 
ever,  and  he  had  climbed  among  them  a  very  little  way 
before  he  slipped  and  fell  heavily. 

He  must  have  struck  his  head  in  falling,  for  he  found 
himself  coming  out  of  a  sort  of  dream,  with  Ben  licking 
his  face  and  touching  him  gently  with  his  forefoot  to 
arouse  him.  He  was  conscious  of  a  dull  pain  in  his  leg, 
which  became  an  acute  one  when  he  tried  to  draw  it 
from  between   the   rocks   in  which   his   foot   was    caught. 


A    CLOSE    CALL  273 

He  soon  realized  that  he  had  broken  it  against  a  low 
stone  across  which  he  had  fallen;  but  fortunately  he  had 
rolled  slightly  aside,  or  he  would  have  been  lying  with 
his  broken  leg  bent  over  the  stone. 

His  plight  was  bad  enough  even  with  this  small  allevia- 
tion. His  foot  was  fast  wedged  between  the  two  great 
rocks,  and  he  had  no  power  in  his  broken  leg  to  withdraw 
it.  Nor  could  he  get  at  his  boot  to  unfasten  it.  With 
great  pain  after  a  time  he  managed  to  wriggle  his  body 
so  that  he  could  loosen  the  lace  at  the  top,  but  that  was 
the  limit  to  which  he  could  reach ;  by  no  effort,  held  as 
he  was,  could  he  have  freed  himself,  and  the  effort  he 
did  make  was  so  painful  that  he  fainted  again  twice  be- 
fore he  gave  it  up. 

But  this  was  not  until  long  after  he  had  fallen,  when 
night  was  coming  on,  and  hopes  of  rescue  were  beginning 
to  fail  him. 

From  where  he  lay  he  could  see,  half  a  mile  away,  on 
the  cliff-top  where  it  was  declining  towards  the  shore, 
a  low-built  cottage  with  some  trees  beyond  it.  It  was 
the  only  house  within  sight,  but  he  saw  no  sign  of  life 
about  it  except  the  smoke  from  its  chimney.  Whatever 
garden  or  yard  was  attached  to  it  must  have  been  on  the 
other  side,  for  it  was  wild  ground  covered  with  gorse 
and  broom  and  heather  between  it  and  the  sea.  Many 
times  he  shouted  with  the  full  force  of  his  lungs,  even 
after  he  had  long  given  up  hope  of  being  heard  at  such 
a  distance.  When  he  shouted  Ben  barked.  Ben  was  dis- 
turbed about  him,  and  tried  many  times  to  get  him  to 
rise.  Pippin  tried  to  send  him  off  to  get  help,  but  the 
poor  dog,  who  would  have  given  his  life  for  him  without 
grudging  the  gift,  could  not  understand  him.     His  mas- 


274  PIPPIN 

ter  was  in  trouble;  he  knew  that  much;  and  his  place 
was  at  his  side.  As  the  hours  wore  on  he  sat  on  his 
haunches  beside  him,  sometimes  licking  his  face,  some- 
times  setting  up  a  mournful  howl.  Every  now  and  then 
he  would  wander  off  as  if  he  knew  that  he  ought  to  be 
doing  something.  But  he  would  be  drawn  back  again  to 
where  his  beloved  master  lay  so  unaccountably,  and  all 
the  quicker  if  Pippin  spoke  to  encourage  him  to  go  on. 
He  could  only  hope  that  sooner  or  later  his  instinct, 
strong  enough  now  to  set  him  in  motion,  would  lead  him 
to  go  further  for  help. 

Poor  Pippin  lay  helpless  on  a  little  patch  of  wet  beach 
between  the  rocks,  his  head  resting  on  a  stone  which 
presently  he  made  softer  with  his  pack.  Perhaps  he  dozed 
a  little,  or  swooned  again  from  the  sharp  pain  in  his 
head  and  the  dull  pain  in  his  leg,  and  the  fear  that  came 
upon  him  when  he  understood  that  the  tide  coming  up 
would  drown  him  if  no  help  had  come  in  the  meantime. 
For  now  it  was  night.  The  stars  were  shining  in  a  clear 
sky;  there  was  no  wind,  and  the  murmur  of  the  sea  came 
to  him  gently  as  if  it  were  still  far  off.  There  was  a 
light  in  an  upper  window  of  the  cottage  which  he  could 
see  from  where  he  lay.  Oh,  if  only  those  who  were  dwell- 
ing in  it  in  comfort  and  safety  could  know  of  his  plight, 
lying  there  with  death  so  soon  to  come  to  him !  But 
he  was  past  calling  to  them  now.  He  knew  it  was  of 
no  use,  and  instinct  bade  him  reserve  all  his  failing 
strength.  Ben  whimpered  beside  him  at  intervals,  and 
sometimes  left  him  as  at  first,  but  never  for  long. 

Presently    the    light    in    the   cottage   went    out,    and    he 
was  more  lonely  than  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life  before. 

But   with   the  extinguishing  of  hope,   a  calm  of  spirit 


A    CLOSE    CALL  275 

descended  upon  him.  Effort  was  past,  and  he  no  longer 
raged  against  his  fate.  Cold  fear  gripped  him  now  and 
again  when  he  thought  of  death  coming  to  him  by  the 
creeping  waters,  but  even  that  thought  slipped  from  him, 
and  he  lay  curiously  quiescent  in  mind,  though  his  body 
was  beginning  to  rack  him  more  sharply  than  before. 

He  thought  tenderly  of  those  he  was  leaving  behind 
him,  as  if  bidding  them  farewell,  but  was  not  concerned 
at  the  life  he  would  miss,  though  it  was  sweet  to  him. 
In  that  hour  the  passion  he  had  felt  for  the  girl  of 
the  circus  dropped  from  him.  That  had  been  but  a 
passing  impulse,  though  if  it  had  not  been  torn  up  it 
might  have  grown  into  something  permanent.  The  latter 
days  of  his  life  seemed  of  small  account  to  him  now ;  it 
was  his  home  to  which  his  thoughts  winged  their  way, 
and  all  the  years  he  had  spent  within  its  shelter.  His 
brain  roamed  idly  over  many  little  episodes  of  his  child- 
hood and  youth,  and  set  before  him  a  thousand  pictures. 
His  father  and  mother  and  his  cousin  Alison  chiefly 
vivified  them,  but  his  friends  among  those  who  had  lived 
about  his  home  flitted  in  and  out  of  his  consciousness  too. 
He  was  so  interested  in  his  thoughts  that  for  a  time 
they  were  stronger  than  the  pain  he  was  suffering. 

But  the  pain  was  always  increasing,  and  presently  his 
thoughts  began  to  wander.  When  this  happened  he  lost 
account  of  time.  The  stars  shifted  above  him,  but  some- 
times after  what  had  seemed  immense  periods  of  time  they 
stood  in  the  same  place,  and  sometimes  they  seemed  to 
have  taken  a  leap  onwards  while  he  had  closed  his  eyes 
for  a  second. 

At  last  he  awoke  as  out  of  a  long  quiet  dream.  The 
sky  was  light,  the  sound  of  the  waves  was  in  his   ears, 


276  PITPIN 

He  was  conscious  of  no  pain  or  distress,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  only  natural  that  Alison  should  be  coming  to- 
wards him  with  Ben  at  her  side,  but  Alison  not  as 
he  had  last  seen  her,  but  as  she  had  been  when  they 
were  boy  and  girl  playing  together.  He  was  pleased  that 
she  had  come,  and  uttered  her  name,  and  then  fell  con- 
tentedly asleep  again. 

He  awoke  to  find  himself  in  bed  in  a  low  white-washed 
room  with  a  latticed  window  open  towards  the  sea,  which 
he  could  see  sparkling  in  the  sunshine  from  where  he  lay. 
He  felt  greatly  at  ease,  though  there  was  a  sense  of  being 
bound  about  his  head  and  body.  But  he  did  not  want  to 
stir  a  muscle  or  to  set  his  brain  working.  There  were 
people  in  the  room  who  would  do  all  that  was  necessary 
for  him,  either  with  brain  or  body — an  old  woman  with 
a  gnarled  kindly  face,  and  a  grizzled  man  with  a  medicinal 
scent  upon  him.  There  was  some  low  talk,  and  something 
was  given  him  to  swallow,  and  then  once  more  he  fell 
asleep. 

At  his  second  waking  memory  returned  in  a  flash,  and 
it  was  with  no  surprise  that  he  saw  sitting  by  the  window 
a  young  girl,  with  his  dog  lien  lying  at  lier  feet.  It 
was  she  who  must  have  brought  rescue  to  him.  She  was 
some  years  younger  than  Alison,  a  bud  of  a  girl  just 
growing  into  womanhood,  and  not  much  like  ner  in  fea- 
ture; but  she  had  the  same  sweet  frank  look,  and  no 
injustice  had  been  done  to  his  cousin  in  tne  confusion 
of  his  thought. 

She  looked  towards  the  bed  and  saw  his  eyes  upon 
her,  and  sprang  up  with  a  sudden  blush.  Ben  sprang 
up  too,  and  barked  in  his  excitement,  which  sent  a  thrill 
of  pain  through  Pippin's  bandaged  head.      She  held  the 


A    CLOSE    CALL  277 

dog  to  prevent  his  leaping  upon  his  beloved  master,  now 
restored  to  him,  and  went  to  the  door  to  call  the  old 
woman.  Pippin  did  not  see  her  again  for  some  days 
after  that,  and  Ben  was  kept  from  his  room,  while  he 
made  his  first  conscious  painful  steps  towards  recovery. 
These,  on  account  of  his  youth  and  health,  were  unhin- 
dered, though  slow,  and  after  some  days  he  was  himself 
again,  but  forced  to  keep  to  his  bed  for  the  present. 

The  doctor  came  frequently  to  see  him,  and  liked  to 
sit  and  chat  by  his  bed.  He  had  spent  the  greater  part 
of  his  life  in  this  sparsely  inhabited  country,  riding  an 
incredible  number  of  miles  to  see  his  patients  in  all 
weathers.  He  was  as  hard  as  an  oak,  but  with  a  soft 
core  of  heart.  He  was  a  bachelor,  which  was  perhaps 
fortunate,  for  his  earnings  would  hardly  have  sufficed 
for  more  than  one ;  but  he  seemed  to  be  completely  satisfied 
with  his  lot  in  life.  He  lived  in  a  cottage  not  far  from 
where  Pippin  was  lying,  kept  two  horses  for  his  work, 
and  when  he  was  not  on  his  rounds  made  himself  com- 
fortable with  a  pipe  and  a  glass  and  a  book.  He  saw 
his  friends,  in  one  place  or  another,  every  day,  and 
showed  a  pride  in  the  welcome  he  could  be  sure  of,  wherever 
he  went.  He  told  Pippin  a  good  deal  about  himself,  and 
about  the  people  whom  he  visited  in  the  farms  and  cot- 
tages of  the  wide  area  which  he  covered.  But  he  told 
him  first  how  very  fortunate  he  was  to  find  himself  lying 
in  a  soft  bed  instead  of  beneath  the  ground.  This  was 
on  the  first  occasion  that  his  patient  was  able  to  listen 
to  any  talk,  and  not  for  some  days  after  he  had  been 
rescued. 

"You  have  your  good  clever  dog  to  thank  for  it,"  he 
said,  "and  my  little  friend  Lydia,  who  was  waked  by  him. 


278  PIPPIN 

You  owe  mc  some  thanks  too,  and  the  men  who  carried 
you  up  the  cliff.  You  were  very  near  to  your  end,  young 
man;  there's  One  above  to  whom  you  might  put  up  a  word 
of  thanks  too,  if  you're  old-fashioned  enough  to  believe 
in  what  you  can't  see  but  know  well  enough  is  there  to 
look  after  you.  I  mustn't  talk  too  much  now,  but  you've 
turned  the  corner,  and  it  won't  do  you  any  harm  to  think 
a  little  of  what  you  have  to  be  grateful  for." 

Mrs.  Collinson,  the  old  woman  to  whose  cottage  he 
had  been  brought,  was  an  indefatigable  nurse,  as  long 
as  Pippin  needed  one.  She  and  Lydia,  her  granddaughter, 
had  all  the  work  of  their  house  to  do,  and  also  of  the 
few  acres  of  land  which  formed  their  holding,  but  the 
doctor  told  him  he  could  not  have  been  better  looked  after 
if  he  had  been  in  a  hospital,  with  nurses  about  him  whose 
only  duty  was  to  tend  the  sick.  "The  clever  doctors 
would  turn  up  their  noses  at  my  medical  knowledge,"  he 
said,  with  a  smile  oh  his  rugged  face,  "but  there's  heart 
as  well  as  brain  in  doctoring,  and  it's  the  same  with 
nursing.  Nursing  is  a  good  test  of  what  a  woman  is 
worth.  Very  few  men  make  good  nurses,  but  a  woman 
has  that  power  of  forgetting  herself  entirely,  and  giving 
all  she  has  to  her  patient.  She  will  go  without  sleep, 
and  has  to  be  driven  to  eat  when  she  is  engaged  in  fight- 
ing for  a  life;  and  very  often  the  life  isn't  worth  fighting 
for,  or  the  end  of  it  is  never  in  doubt,  and  she  is  bound 
to  lose  in  the  struggle.  But  it's  all  one  to  her.  A  woman 
in  a  sick  room  is  one  of  the  noblest  sights  on  this  poor 
earth.  But  when  you  have  lived  on  this  earth  as  long 
as  I  have  you  will  find  that  there  is  more  of  good  in 
it  than  evil,  and  the  lowly  places  are  those  in  which 
you  will  find  it." 


A    CLOSE    CALL  279 

He  treated  the  old  woman  with  a  rough  jocularity, 
which  did  not  displease  her,  though  her  granddaughter 
sometimes  fired  up  against  him  on  account  of  it.  It  was 
clear  that  he  loved  both  of  them,  and  he  would  encourage 
the  girl  in  her  attack,  until  her  indignation  would  sub- 
side, and  she  would  laugh  and  say  that  he  was  an  old 
bear,  but  she  supposed  she  must  forgive  him. 

"These  are  the  sort  of  people,"  he  told  Pippin,  "who 
give  you  a  good  opinion  of  your  fellow-creatures.  You 
find  them  more  often  among  the  poor  than  among  the 
rich,  though  among  the  few  rich  I  have  known  in  my 
life  I  have  found  good  people  too,  but  only  those  who 
sit  light  to  their  riches.  I  suppose  that's  what  the  Good 
Book  means  by  being  poor  in  spirit.  I  knew  this  old 
lady  here  when  she  was  a  young  married  woman,  with 
a  busband  who  wasn't  much  good  to  her  or  to  anybody 
else.  She  had  a  son  who  was  worse  still,  and  she  lived 
through  years  of  trouble  with  both  of  them,  and  never 
complained.  Now  she  has  come  out  into  tranquillity 
towards  the  end  of  her  life,  and  well  she  deserves  it. 
My  little  friend  Lydia  is  the  daughter  of  a  bad  man  and 
a  bad  woman,  if  you  can  say  that  anybody  is  really 
bad ;  but  the  badness  has  skipped  her.  She  has  been 
with  her  grandmother,  luckily  for  her,  ever  since  she  was 
a  baby,  and  a  comfort  to  her  for  all  the  evils  of  her 
earlier  life.  She'll  grow  up  into  a  great  prize  for  some 
man  or  other,  but  it's  quite  likely  that  she'll  give  herself 
to  somebody  who  isn't  worthy  of  her,  and  have  a  life  of 
trouble  like  her  grandmother.  That's  often  the  way  of 
it ;  but  if  a  sensible  young  man  came  along  who  could 
judge  of  a  real  treasure  when  he  saw  one,  he  could  save 


280  PIPPIN 

her  from  that  and  do  himself  a  good  turn  into  the  bar- 
gain." 

Pippin  imagined  himself  invited  to  declare  himself  as 
that  young  man;  but  Lydia  was  still  a  child  in  his  eyes, 
and  he  had  no  inclination  towards  her  except  as  a  child 
friend.  But  on  that  plane  he  loved  her.  She  would  keep 
him  company  while  he  still  lay  in  bed  helpless,  and  talk 
to  him  brightly  about  all  the  little  events  and  interests 
of  her  life,  and  particulary  about  the  great  event  that 
had  come  into  it  of  her  finding  him  insensible  among  the 
rocks,  with  the  waters  surging  very  near  to  his  destruction. 

"I  don't  know  how  long  Ben  had  been  barking  out- 
side," she  said.  "Granny  and  I  sleep  very  soundly,  for 
we  have  a  great  deal  to  do  in  the  day ;  and  she  is  rather 
deaf  besides.  So  she  never  heard  him  at  all,  but  I  did 
seem  to  have  been  hearing  him  for  a  long  time  before  he 
woke  me  up  at  last,  and  I  got  up  and  went  to  the  window. 
He  was  so  excited  at  seeing  me,  the  dear  dog,  and  he 
seemed  to  be  telling  me  to  make  haste  and  come  with 
him." 

"I  had  tried  to  make  him  understand  that  he  must  go 
and  find  help,"  Pippin  said ;  "but  he  would  never  go  far 
from  me.     What  made  him  understand  at  last?" 

"Doctor  says  it  was  God  who  called  him,"  said  Lydia 
simply.  "Doctor  is  a  very  good  man,  and  I  believe  what 
li«    says.     Don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Pippin  seriously.  "I  haven't  thought 
enough   about    these   tilings." 

"Doctor  says  this  will  make  you  think  more  about 
them,"  said  Lydia  with  a  smile;  "and  me  too.  He  says 
that  like  all  young  girls  I  am  too  giddy.  But  I  think 
he  loves  me  all  the  same,  and  I  love  him.     When  I  got 


A    CLOSE    CALL  281 

outside  the  door,  Ben  took  hold  of  my  .skirt  in  his  teeth 
and  dragged  me,  didn't  you,  Ben?" 

Ben,  who  was  lying  between  her  and  Pippin,  moved 
his  tail  sleepily.  Somthing  had  happened  which  it  was 
too  much  trouble  to  remember.  If  they  liked  to  go  on 
talking  about  it,  well  and  good.  It  seemed  that  human 
beings  must  always  be  talking  about  something  or  other, 
but  a  dog's  way  was  to  do  what  had  to  be  done  and 
then  forget  all  about  it.  What  had  to  be  done  now 
was  to  go  to  sleep,  unless  they  particularly  wanted  him 
for  anything.  In  this  he  did  not  include  talk,  for  which 
for  the  moment  he  was  disinclined,  though  if  he  were 
addressed  it  was  only  polite  to  take  notice  of  it. 

"I  couldn't  go  fast  enough  for  him,"  said  Lydia.  "He 
ran  on  in  front  and  then  came  back  and  dragged  me 
again.  Then  he  ran  off  among  the  rocks  to  where  you 
were  lying.  Oh,  how  dreadful  it  was  to  see  you  lying 
there!  And  the  tide  only  a  very  little  way  off  then! 
I  hardly  thought  I  should  be  able  to  get  help  in  time. 
How  I  ran  up  the  cliff!  It  was  like  as  if  it  was  level 
ground.'* 

She  had  moved  the  stone  across  which  he  had  fallen 
to  support  his  head  above  the  water,  which  was  licking 
all  round  his  body  when  she  returned  with  two  men  from 
a  cottage  hard  by,  and  the  doctor. 

"Doctor  cut  off  your  boot,"  she  said.  "I  believe  it's 
still  there  between  the  rocks.  Your  poor  leg  was  all 
swelled  up.  Oh,  it  was  only  just  in  time  that  Ben  fetched 
me." 

A  close  call,  indeed !  Pippin  had  much  to  think  about 
after  he  had  heard  the  full  story  of  his  rescue. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

PIPPIN    IS    PREACHED    AT 

Mrs.  Collinson's  cottage  was  the  only  one  that  could 
be  seen  from  the  spot  where  Pippin  had  lain  among  the 
rocks  of  the  sea  shore,  but  there  was  a  little  group  of 
them  near  by.  The  doctor's  was  the  dwelling  of  a  five 
acre  farm,  and  there  were  other  farmhouses  scattered 
about  the  sparsely  cultivated  country  which  had  been  re- 
claimed from  the  moorland,  but  no  house  for  some  miles 
with  any  pretensions  to  a  higher  state  of  gentility.  The 
parish  church  was  four  miles  away,  and  was  almost  un- 
known to  the  inhabitants  of  this  outlying  settlement. 
They  had  a  little  stone-built  chapel  of  their  own,  with 
no  regular  minister,  where,  however,  no  Sunday  passed 
without  a  service  of  religion  at  which  the  bulk  of  the 
scattered  community  assembled.  It  was  usually  con- 
ducted by  an  old  farmer  who  had  founded  a  Sunday  School 
for  the  children  of  this  place  many  years  before,  and 
had  a  simple  skill  in  expounding  the  Scriptures.  But  he 
was  too  diffident  of  himself  to  undertake  the  preaching 
of  a  sermon,  and  English-speaking  people  love  a  sermon. 
This  was  sometimes  supplied  by  an  itinerant  preacher, 
but  the  great  occasions  were  when  the  doctor  announced 
himself  prepared  with  a  discourse. 

This  happened  two  or  three  times  in  the  year  when 
something  had  occurred  to  lift  the  little  community  out 
of  the  rut  of  its  even  life,  and  expectation  ran  high  of 
the  line  he  would  take  about  it.     A  death  would  some- 

282 


PIPPIN    IS    PREACHED   AT  283 

times  send  him  into  the  pulpit,  and  not  always  with  an 
encomium  on  the  departed.     A  marriage  was  almost  sure 
to  do   so,  for  he  loved  young  people,   and   liked  to   see 
two   of  them  settling  down   together  in  the  world,    and 
to  give  them  advice  on  how  to  make  the  best  of  one  an- 
other.    He  would  sometimes  address  them  when  a  child 
had  been  born.    He  was  great  upon  the  care  and  training 
of  young   children,    and    much   sound    advice   was    given 
in  these  discourses  upon  medical  as  well  as  moral  grounds. 
He  hated   slander  and   backbiting,  to  which  small   com- 
munities are  more  than  usually  liable.     Whenever  he  an- 
nounced himself  for  an  address  when  no  particular  event 
had   occurred,   this   was   pretty   sure   to   be  his   subject. 
Those  who  were  prone  to  ill-natured  tittle-tattle  feared 
the  lash  of  his  tongue,  and  he  had  been  known  to  point 
a  finger  at  a  member  of  his  congregation,  and  to  repeat 
uncharitable  words  that  had  come  to  his  ears.     He  never 
touched  upon  doctrine,  and  indeed  a  searching  criticism 
might  have  failed  to  find  anything  specifically  Christian 
in  his  sermons.     But  he  always  based  them  upon  a  text 
of  Scripture,  which  completely  satisfied  his  hearers  upon 
their    orthodoxy ;    and    a    simple    spirit    of    piety    shone 
through  them  which  touched  their  hearts. 

Pippin's  first  outing  was  when  he  hobbled  slowly  on  a 
pair  of  crutches  to  an  evening  service  at  the  little  chapel. 
The  Doctor  was  to  preach,  and  it  was  known  to  all  the 
congregation  that  he  would  preach  upon  Pippin's  rescue 
from  imminent  death.  Lydia  had  told  Pippin  that  this 
would  be  so,  but  he  had  not  quite  realized  the  pointed 
application  of  the  speaker's  method,  or  he  might  have 
hesitated  to  put  himself  into  a  position  of  such  promi- 
nence.    The  Doctor,  however,  had  told  him  that  he  was 


284  P I  P  P  I  N 

well  enough  now  to  return  public  thanks  to  Almighty  God 
for  the  mercy  that  had  been  vouchsafed  him,  and  would 
not  have  allowed  him  to  stay  away. 

There  was  hardly  a  man,  woman  or  child  of  the  little 
community  who  did  not  come  to  the  chapel  that  evening. 
Its  narrow  benches  were  full.  The  singing  of  hymns, 
usually  with  some  metaphor  drawn  from  the  sea  or  the 
soil,  and  man's  work  thereon,  or  from  warfare,  in  which 
his  religious  life  should  be  spent,  was  undertaken  very 
heartily.  The  old  farmer  conducted  the  service  up  to  the 
time  for  the  sermon,  and  Pippin  had  time  to  look  around 
him  at  the  people  who  were  gathered  here. 

He  knew  many  of  them  by  this  time,  for  he  had  re- 
ceived visits  during  his  convalescence,  sitting  in  the  tiny 
parlour  of  the  cottage,  or  outside  in  sight  of  the  sea. 
And  the  rest  he  knew  about,  for  the  old  woman  and  the 
young  girl  had  both  plied  him  with  tales  of  their  neigh- 
bours, and  the  doctor  had  talked  to  him  about  his  flock 
too.  It  was  natural  to  think  of  them  as  his  flock  as 
well  as  his  patients,  in  this  place,  and  he  had  undoubtedly 
stamped  his  impression  upon  them.  He  was  their  superior 
in  many  ways,  but  he  was  also  their  equal.  He  was  friend 
to  all  of  them,  and  lived  his  life  among  them  of  free 
choice. 

There  were  a  few  farmers  and  their  families,  and  the 
rest  were  humble  folk  who  drew  their  living  either  from 
the  fields  or  from  the  sea.  He  had  welded  them  all  into 
a  unity,  which  was  somehow  apparent  even  to  Pippin 
as  he  looked  around  him.  They  were  one  large  family 
into  the  bosom  of  which  he  had  been  taken,  and  his  heart 
Wftrmed   towards   them. 

It  was  a  still,  cloudless  evening,  and  the  sun  sending 


PIPPIN    IS    PREACHED    AT  285 

its  level  rays  through  the  high  window  behind  the  pulpit 
mad;  a  mild  halo  of  the  doctor's  grey  hair  as  he  stood 
up  to  preach,  while  all  the  crowded  congregation  settled 
themselves  to  listen  to  him. 

His  text  was :  "Yet  the  dogs  under  the  table  eat  of  the 
children's  crumbs,"  and  there  was  a  ripple  of  anticipation, 
as  his  hearers  waited  for  what  he  would  make  out  of  that, 
and  a  few  broad  smiles  were  to  be  seen  on  the  faces  of 
those  more  alert  who  guessed  that  Ben  was  to  receive 
his  meed  of  praise  for  the  rescue  he  was  known  to  have 
brought. 

So  it  was.  The  preacher  extolled  the  love  and  faith- 
fulness of  an  animal  often  held  up  in  the  Bible  as  a  type 
of  all  that  was  vile,  though  he  made  it  clear  to  those 
unaware  of  the  fact  that  the  pariah  dog  of  the  East  was 
a  very  different  animal  from  the  one  that  had  earned  the 
name  of  the  friend  of  man  in  our  civilization.  Ben — he 
mentioned  him  more  than  once  by  name — had  kept  b}^  his 
master,  lying  in  peril  of  death,  all  night  long.  He  had 
known  no  better.  "It  isn't  always  the  cleverest  people, 
you  know,  that  are  the  most  loving."  And  then  at  last 
the  love  he  was  full  of  had  bade  him  do  something  that 
it  wasn't  altogether  natural  to  him  to  do.  Or  if  they 
preferred  it,  it  had  been  put  into  the  dog's  limited  mind 
to  do  what  was  necessary.  He  preferred  that  explana- 
tion himself.  If  it  was  said  that  such  a  thing  would  be 
something  like  a  miracle,  he  still  preferred  it.  If  it  was 
said  that  miracles  don't  happen  nowadays,  very  well! 
"You  keep  your  opinion  and  I'll  keep  mine." 

He  returned  to  the  qualities  of  the  dog  as  they  were 
known  to  all  of  his  "hearers,  and  told  them  anecdotes  to 
illustrate  his  faithfulness,  obedience,  self-sacrifice  and  un- 


286  r  i  r  p  i  n 

questioning  devotion  to  those  whom  he  recognized  as  hav- 
ing a  right  to  it. 

Then  he  broke  off  and  gave  a  vivid  picture  of  a  young 
man  in  the  full  tide  of  life  lying  all  night  long  helpless 
and  in  pain,  with  death  coming  to  him  with  the  return 
of  morning.  Pippin  felt  rather  uncomfortable  as  he  was 
thus  made  the  hero  of  a  realistic  story,  not  in  all  points 
squaring  with  the  facts  upon  which  it  was  based,  and 
had  to  receive  stares  of  pleased  recognition  from  the 
younger  children  and  sidelong  looks  from  their  elders. 
But  his  discomfort  was  mixed  with  gratification.  Cer- 
tainly he  had  passed  through  a  very  interesting  adventure, 
and  could  not  himself  have  told  it  half  so  well.  He  was 
more  moved  by  the  preacher's  account  of  his  perils  than 
he  had  been  at  any  time  by  the  thought  of  them  since 
they  had  come  to  an  end. 

This  passage  broke  off  too,  with  a  somewhat  damping 
reminder  that  folly  and  carelessness  often  led  people 
into  positions  in  which  they  couldn't  help  themselves  and 
had  to  be  helped  by  others.  So  far  it  had  only  been 
material  to  which  some  moral  might  be  applied,  though 
none  had  as  yet  shaped  itself  which  could  bring  the  two 
strands  of  the  discourse  together.  But  the  preacher  had 
kept  the  attention  of  his  hearers,  who  had  followed  him 
with  all  their  eyes  and  ears. 

"Well  then,  what  has  all  this  talk  of  dogs,  and  a  young 
man  breaking  his  leg  on  the  rocks,  to  do  with  religion, 
which  we  come  here  to  think  about,  and  to  try  to  fol- 
low? We  all  love  talking  about  our  dogs  at  any  time, 
and  though  we  are  pleased  to  sec  our  young  friend  about 
again   we   haven't   come   here  to   tell   him   so.      We   come 


PIPPIN    IS    PREACHED   AT  287 

here  to  worship  God,  and  to  learn  something  more  about 
Him  if  we  can." 

The  dogs  eat  of  the  crumbs.  The  most  debased  crea- 
tures known  to  the  world  at  the  time  those  words  were 
spoken  have  something  given  to  them;  still  more  the 
much  higher  animal  which  the  dog  is  as  he  is  known  to 
us.  They  have  gifts  given  to  them  which  countless  human 
beings,  who  really  desire  the  best  sort  of  gifts,  never 
seem  to  attain  to.  "Show  me  the  man  or  woman  or  child 
whose  love  is  as  unselfish  as  a  dog's,  or  whose  readiness 
to  give  service  is  as  great,  and  I'll  show  you  one  of  the 
best  and  most  lovable  of  God's  creatures.  And  yet  those 
are  only  the  crumbs  of  God's  mercy.  Let  us  think  for 
a  moment  what  the  full  feast  is  like." 

So  he  held  up  before  them  the  Christian  virtues,  or 
such  of  them  as  most  appealed  to  him,  and  gave  them 
something  of  a  fresh  application  which  struck  home. 

Then  he  turned  to  Pippin  again,  and  made  them  smile 
by  his  description  of  what  had  been  given  to  him  as  a 
special  titbit,  "as  it  might  be  one  of  you  fathers  putting 
something  from  his  own  plate  into  the  mouth  of  his 
child."  The  child  would  love  its  father,  wouldn't  it?  for 
giving  it  something  that  he  might  have  kept  to  himself. 
Children  are  sometimes  greedy,  and  they  take  the  love 
of  their  parents  as  a  matter  of  course.  But  they  do  give 
some  return  for  it.  Even  to  a  child  the  father's  love 
would  be  more  than  the  dainty  it  was  swallowing.  Pippin 
was  exhorted  not  to  swallow  his  special  titbit  from  the 
rich  feast  without  thinking  of  the  Father  who  had  given 
it  to  him,  and  making  some  return.  "Don't  bolt  it  down, 
lad !"  said  the  preacher  with  immense  emphasis. 


288  PIPPIN 

This  personal  adjuration,  which  came  just  before  the 
ending  of  the  sermon,  was  less  gratifying  to  Pippin's 
youthful  vanity  than  the  notice  he  had  received  earlier, 
but  it  made  an  impression  upon  him  which  subdued  his 
self-esteem.  The  service  came  to  an  end,  and  the  con- 
gregation, after  lingering  for  a  time  outside  the  little 
chapel,  went  their  several  ways  home.  Pippin  hobbled  on 
his  crutches  through  a  field  of  ripening  corn,  with  the  sea 
in  front  of  him,  calm  and  still  in  the  evening  sunlight. 
The  soberness  of  spirit  which  had  come  upon  him  melted 
into  a  sense  of  peace  and  well-being.  He  felt  happy  and 
clean  of  mind,  which  was  perhaps  the  best  answer  he 
could  have  given  to  the  appeal  that  had  been  made  to  him. 

For  some  weeks  Pippin  had  perforce  to  live  a  life  of 
idleness,  and  in  the  meantime  his  small  stock  of  money, 
much  depleted  by  his  recent  sojourn  in  the  sea-side  town, 
was  fast  melting  away  to  nothing.  The  doctor  had  ar- 
ranged on  his  behalf  what  he  was  to  pay  Mrs.  Collinson 
for  his  bed  and  board.  It  was  little  enough,  though  in 
her  penury  it  was  a  help  to  her;  but  he  would  not  be  able 
to  pay  it  for  more  than  a  few  weeks  longer,  and  however 
little  the  doctor  should  charge  him  for  his  unremitting  at- 
tention he  would  have  nothing  with  which  to  pay  that. 

This  btgan  to  worry  him.  Should  he  write  home  for 
money?  No.  The  undertaking  had  been  that  if  he 
wanted  money  above  what  he  had  received,  he  must  earn  it 
for  himself,  and  lie  felt  himself  bound  by  it.  But  how 
could  he  earn  money  without  getting  about?  At  last  he 
put  his  difficulty  to  the  doctor. 

"Well,"  said  that  friend  of  his,  when  he  had  heard  him 
out,  "it  would  be  easy  enough  for  me  to  forgive  you  what 
you  owe  me;  but  I  have  to  live,  and  if  I  don't  take  pay- 


PIPPIN    IS    PREACHED   AT  289 

ment  from  you  for  the  work  I  have  done  for  you,  I  must 
be  a  little  harder  on  those  whom  I  might  want  to  let  off 
some  of  their  debt.  And  of  course  you  must  pay  the  old 
lady  here  for  as  long  as  you  stay  with  her.  If  you  cant 
earn  money  for  yourself,  you  will  have  to  apply  to  your 
parents  for  it.     That  much  seems  clear." 

Pippin  agreed  to  this,  though  he  thought  it  might 
have  been  more  sympathetically  put.  He  was  inclined  to 
pride  himself  upon  keeping  to  the  strict  letter  of  the 
understanding  with  his  father,  but  the  doctor  seemed  to 
take  small  interest  in  that,  and  asked  him  no  questions 
about  it.  "Have  you  thought  of  anything  you  might  do 
while  you  are  laid  up?"  he  asked  him. 

"The  only  thing  I  can  think  of  is  to  make  fishing  nets," 
said  Pippin,  "Lydia  has  taught  me  how  to  do  it,  but  I 
have  told  her  that  I  will  help  her  with  the  net  she  is 
making  when  she  isn't  working  at  it  herself." 

Net-making  was  the  industry  which  most  of  the  women 
and  some  of  the  men  of  this  little  community  worked  at 
in  their  spare  time.  It  was  not  very  well  paid,  but  the 
extra  money  it  brought  in  was  welcome  to  supplement  the 
low  rate  of  wages  that  prevailed  here.  With  Lydia  and 
her  grandmother  it  provided  nearly  all  the  actual  money 
they  had  to  spend.  Mrs.  Collinson's  house  and  her  few 
acres  were  her  own,  but  it  was  all  she  had. 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  the  doctor,  not  in  his  most 
accommodating  mood  on  this  morning.  "If  you  were  a 
young  gentleman  of  fortune  it  would  be  a  graceful  thing 
to  throw  in  that  amount  of  help  in  addition  to  what  you 
are  paying  them,  and  no  doubt  Lydia  thinks  it  is  a  very 
noble  thing  of  you  to  do,  and  is  absurdly  grateful  for  it. 
But  I'm  afraid  you'll  have  to  forego  the  pleasure  of  work- 


290  r  i  r  p  i  n 

ing  for  her  for  nothing,  as  it  is  necessary  for  you  to  work 
in  order  to  pay  them  for  what  you  get  from  them." 

Pippin  felt  a  strong  resentment  at  this  way  of  putting 
it.  There  was  enough  truth  in  the  charge  to  make  it 
rankle.  "I'm  quite  ready  to  do  that,"  he  said,  in  the 
swift  offence  of  youth  at  age  trampling  upon  its  sensi- 
bilities. "It  is  I  who  suggested  it,  if  you'll  remember. 
But  I  didn't  know  that  I  might  not  he  spoiling  their  mar- 
ket if  I  competed  with  them.  In  fact  I  know  very  little 
about  it,  and  I  came  to  you  for  advice." 

"Well,  you've  come  to  the  right  quarter,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  a  quizzical  glance  at  him.  "No  need  to  take 
offence  at  my  plain-speaking.  It's  my  way,  and  you 
must  put  up  with  it,  as  all  the  rest  of  them  do.  You 
won't  be  competing  with  anybody,  for  there's  a  practically 
unlimited  market  and  the  price  is  fixed.  All  you  will 
have  to  do  is  to  buy  your  needle  and  your  mesh-pin  and 
your  stock  of  twine  and  rope.  I  suppose  you  have 
enough  money  left  for  that,  and  if  not  I  shall  be  glad 
to  lend  you  what  is  necessary.  You'll  have  to  work  long 
hours  at  it,  so  as  to  do  what  a  machine  will  do  in  as  many 
minutes.  That's  the  curse  of  machine  invention.  Handi- 
craft is  always  better,  but  they  won't  pay  much  more 
for  it.  Still,  you  can  make  your  living  by  this,  young 
man,  and  a  bit  over,  and  I'm  glad  you  first  thought  of 
doing  it.  Lydia  won't  think  any  the  worse  of  you,  I'll 
promise  you." 

This  was  rather  too  much  in  the  line  of  the  doctor's 
evident  desires  for  his  young  favourite  to  remove  alto- 
gether the  rub  of  his  previous  roughness.  Pippin  and 
Lydia  were  now  close  friends,  but  his  mind  was  quite 
empty  of  any  feeling  but  that  of  elder  brotherly  affection 


PIPPIN    IS    PREACHED   AT  291 

for  her.  Even  the  passion  he  had  so  lately  felt  for  the 
girl  of  the  circus  had  left  him,  washed  away,  as  it  seemed, 
by  the  crisis  through  which  he  had  passed.  He  could 
think  of  her  without  pain  and  without  desire;  but  he 
thought  about  her  as  little  as  possible,  content  to  have 
found  this  quiet  resting-place  for  a  time,  and  not  yet  in 
the  way  of  planning  anything  for  the  day  when  he  would 
be  ready  to  leave  it.  He  did  not  suppose  that  Lydia's 
feeling  for  him  was  any  different  from  his  for  her,  and 
the  doctor's  little  promptings  and  guidings,  which  were 
so  obvious,  though  he  thought  them  skilfully  wrapped  up, 
were  something  of  an  irritation  to  him.  He  and  Lydia 
understood  one  another  perfectly,  and  of  course  she 
would  not  think  the  worse  of  him  for  setting  about  the 
breading  of  nets,  as  they  called  it  in  that  country,  for 
his  temporary  support. 

She  did  not,  but  commended  him  for  his  noble  inde- 
pendence of  character,  since,  as  he  told  her,  money  was 
his  for  the  asking,  if  he  cared  to  ask  for  it,  and  he  need 
not  be  plying  his  needle  all  day  long  and  making  his 
fingers  sore  and  tarry  for  the  pittance  he  earned  by  it. 
But  she  thought  he  ought  to  write  to  his  parents  and  tell 
them  about  the  escape  he  had  had ;  and  he  might  perhaps 
like  to  say  that  he  was  happy  and  comfortable  where  he 
was,  which  could  only  relieve  their  minds  about  him. 

But  no,  he  wouldn't  do  thr,t.  She  didn't  know  his 
father,  who  had  sent  him  out  into  the  world  on  an  idea 
of  his  own.  A  year  would  soon  pass,  and  it  would  be 
time  enough  then  to  hear  the  tale  of  all  his  adventures. 
His  father  didn't  want  letters  from  him. 

But  his  mother !  Didn't  she  want  to  hear  from  him, 
Lydia  asked. 


292  P I T  P  I N 

He  gave  her  to  understand  that  his  father's  word  was 
law  in  his  home.  Both  his  mother  and  he  accepted  it 
when  it  was  given,  but  it  was  rare  for  him  to  give  it 
against  their  wishes.  When  he  did  so,  it  was  not  to  be 
disregarded. 

Lydia  laughed  at  that,  but  not  with  merriment. 
"Granny  and  I  don't  hang  upon  the  words  of  any  man," 
she  said. 

"What  about  the  doctor?"  asked  Pippin. 

"Oil,  we  like  to  please  him,"  she  said ;  "and  perhaps  if 
a  man — "  She  broke  off.  She  had  been  going  to  say 
that  if  allegiance  was  owing  to  a  man  it  might  not  be 
difficult  to  bow  to  his  will  without  question.  But  her 
thought  would  not  have  found  precisely  that  expression, 
and  there  were  other  reasons  why  she  did  not  give  it 
further  utterance.  "Is  there  nobody  else  at  your  home, 
who  would  like  to  hear  about  you  before  the  year  is  up?" 
she  asked;  and  Pippin  replied  that  at  his  home  there  were 
only  his  father  and  his  mother  and  himself. 

It  was  not  then,  but  a  few  days  later,  that  she  asked 
him  suddenly :  "What  was  the  name  you  called  out  when 
I  found  you  lying  among  the  rocks?  Who  did  you  think 
I  was?" 

He  was  confused.  He  very  dimly  remembered  her  find- 
ing him.  Was  it  possible  that  he  had  been  thinking  of 
Rosie  Schwenck  at  that  moment  which  but  for  Lydia  would 
have  been  very  near  his  last,  and  had  called  her  name? 
"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "I  don't  remember  calling  any- 
body's name." 

"I  think  it  was  Alice."  She  was  not  going  to  let  him 
off.  "It  sounded  like  that.  It  was  just  as  if  you  recog- 
nized me." 


PIPPIN    IS    PREACHED   AT  293 

His  face  cleared.  "Alison?"  he  said.  "I  might  have 
thought  you  were  Alison,  though  she  is  older  than  you. 
She  is  my  cousin  who  lives  near  us.  Did  I  really  call 
her  name?" 

Then  she  wanted  to  know  all  about  Alison,  and  particu- 
larly her  age,  and  how  long  they  had  known  each  other. 

"She  is  a  year  younger  than  I  am,"  Pippin  told  her. 
"We  have  always  known  each  other.  She  wasn't  alto- 
gether unlike  you  when  she  was  your  age.  She  was  the 
last  person  I  saw  when  I  left  home." 

She  wanted  to  know  all  about  that,  and  plied  him  with 
questions  about  the  childhood  and  youth  they  had  spent 
together.  He  was  nothing  loth  to  talk  to  her  about 
Alison.  His  home  was  fair  to  him  now,  and  all  the  life 
he  had  lived  there,  in  which  Alison  had  played  a  large 
part.  This  was  when  he  had  been  working  at  his  net- 
making  for  some  time,  and  before  he  had  begun  to  walk 
without  a  crutch.  It  was  well  to  be  working  for  his  liv- 
ing, and  his  mind  was  at  ease  on  that  account.  But  it 
meant  long  hours  of  labour  for  small  pay,  and  the  days 
were  becoming  montonous.  It  would  have  been  very  pleas- 
ant to  be  getting  over  his  accident  surrounded  by  the 
comforts  of  his  home ;  and  though  he  loved  this  little 
Lydia,  for  all  her  goodness,  and  her  unselfish  attentions 
to  him,  she  was  no  substitute  for  Alison,  with  whom  he 
could  discuss  everything  that  came  into  his  mind  with  the 
certainty  of  her  understanding  him,  and  to  whom  he  had 
so  much  to  tell  now  that  he  did  not  know  how  he  could 
put  off  the  telling  of  it  for  many  months  longer. 

But  this  happened  not  until  his  leg  was  nearly  strong 
enough  for  him  to  walk  unsupported.  For  a  long  time  he 
was  happy  and  content  to  be  where  he  was,  and  adapted 


294  PIPPIN 

himself  with  gratitude  and  interest  to  the  life  into  which 
he  had  received  so  kind  a  welcome. 

It  was  the  cottager's  life,  always  near  to  poverty,  in 
which  every  penny  was  counted,  and  the  rule  of  life  was, 
What  can  I  do  without?  rather  than,  What  can  I  get? 
For  there  was  little  to  be  got  from  any  source  beyond 
what  would  supply  necessities,  and  the  only  way  to  keep 
a  free  mind  was  to  reduce  those  as  far  as  was  possible.    The 
advantage  of  this  was  that  it  so  increased  the  number  of 
luxuries  to  be  enjoyed;  for  the  lower  the  line  was  drawn 
the  more  there  was  above  it.     The  doctor  propounded  this 
theory  to  him,  when  he  showed  himself  anxious  that  Pippin 
should   not  put  a  strain  upon   the  resources  of  the   old 
woman  who  was  doing  all  she  could  for  him.     He  spoke 
plainly  about  this.      "You  wouldn't  do  it  on  purpose,  I 
know,"  he  said ;  "but  poor  people,  as  most  of  us  here  are, 
don't  and  can't  live  in  the  way  you  and  I  are  accustomed 
to,  though  certainly  I  and  perhaps  you  would  call  our  way 
of  living  simple  enough.     You  must  watch  out  for  what 
seems  necessary  to  you  but  isn't  to  them,  and  do  without 
it,  not  letting  them  know  that  you  miss  it.     For  there's  a 
true  pride  of  poverty  as  well  as  a  false  one.      This  old 
lady  wouldn't  mind  going  without  anything  herself,  but 
it  would  hurt  her  if  she  thought  you  were  missing  some- 
thing." 

Pippin  said  that  he  was  careful  about  this,  and  admired 
the  courageous  way  in  which  the  old  lady  faced  her 
poverty. 

"Oh,  you  needn't  pity  her,"  said  the  doctor,  although  it 
was  admiration  and  not  pity  that  Pippin  had  expressed. 
"There's  a  lot  of  fun  to  be  got  out  of  poverty,  if  it's 
not  too  grinding.      It  isn't  the  poor  people  who  get  tired 


PIPPIN   IS    PREACHED   AT  295 

of  life.  It's  the  rich  people,  to  whom  everything  comes 
so  easily  that  there's  no  savour  in  it.  The  more  you 
can  do  without  the  more  you  enjoy  what  you  get.  If 
you  are  used  to  bread  and  butter  and  jam  every  day  you 
don't  think  it  much  of  a  treat.  If  you  can  only  afford 
bread  and  butter,  whenever  you  get  jam  it  is  a  treat.  If 
you  can  only  afford  bread,  it  doubles  the  treat  to  have 
all  three  sometimes.  And  if  you  can  never  be  sure  of  get- 
ting enough  bread,  the  bread  itself  is  a  treat  when  you  do 
get  it.  Besides,  poverty  is  a  better  soil  for  the  virtues 
to  grow  in  than  wealth.  It  won't  do  you  any  harm,  as 
long  as  you  stay  here,  to  notice  how  many  of  our  old 
friend's  virtues  grow  out  of  her  poverty.  You  will  learn 
something  about  life  in  that  way  that  you  may  not  have  an 
opportunity  of  learning  again." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

PIPPIN   WORKS  AND   GETS  TIRED  OF  IT 

For  some  weeks  Pippin  lived  the  life  of  one  of  the  poorer 
sort  of  workers  in  this  place,  while  the  summer  came  to 
its  full  and  waned  towards  the  fall.  And  he  was  happy 
in  it. 

Man  is  an  adaptable  creature,  and  if  deprived  of  some- 
thing which  curtails  his  powers  or  opportunities'  makes 
good  shift  without  it.  The  patience  and  contentment  of 
the  blind  are  well  known ;  a  man  who  has  lost  a  limb  is 
usually  not  less  cheerful  than  if  he  had  four  like  his 
neighbours;  and  even  those  who  are  bedridden,  though  they 
may  wish  for  activity,  do  not  wish  for  it  so  ardently  and 
continuously  as  to  spoil  their  relish  of  what  remains  to 
them.  The  deprivation  lessens  the  desire.  The  old  may 
wish  themselves  young  again,  but  they  do  not  wish  for  the 
things  of  youth  in  their  state  of  age.  The  sick  wish  for 
health,  but  it  will  only  be  when  health  returns  to  them  that 
they  will  feel  again  the  zest  for  doing  which  is  proper  to 
the  state  of  health.  Their  desire  for  the  time  is  chiefly  to 
lie  still. 

So  as  long  as  Pippin  was  kept  to  one  place,  or  very  near 

it,  by  his  broken  leg,  his  natural  desire  for  movement  was 

suspended,  and  he  took  satisfaction  in  what  would  have 

only  irked  him  if  he  had  been  all  himself.     It  was  pleasant 

to  wake  in  his  tiny  room  under  the  eaves,  to  see  the  light 

of  the   sun,  hear  the   murmur  of    the   sea   as   a   sort   of 

ground-bass  to  the  homely  noises  of  the  birds  and  animals 

296 


PIPPIN    WORKS   AND   GETS    TIRED   297 

about  the  cottage  farm,  and  to  smell  the  clean  scents  of 
the  unpolluted  country.  All  these  things,  to  which  he 
was  accustomed  in  his  own  home,  meant  more  to  him  here, 
since  his  mind  was  not  occupied  immediately  upon  waking 
with  all  the  activities  that  had  been  before  him  there. 
There  was  one  chief  thing  before  him  in  the  day  to  which 
he  was  now  awaking — the  long  hours  to  be  spent  in  the 
increasing  of  his  net ;  and  somehow  he  looked  forward  to 
that  task  in  spite  of  its  monotony. 

He  became  very  skilful  at  it.  After  a  short  time  he 
could  net  a  row  faster  than  Lydia.  He  would  time  him- 
self, and  make  calculations  of  how  many  rows  he  could  do 
in  an  hour,  in  a  day,  in  a  week,  and  how  much  he  could 
earn  in  a  given  time.  This  gave  the  almost  mechanical 
work  an  added  interest,  the  hours  he  spent  at  it  slipped 
by,  and,  by  increasing  his  rate  over  the  reasonable  amount 
he  had  bound  himself  to  do,  he  gained  periods  of  leisure 
in  which  he  did  nothing,  or  read  a  book.  These  periods 
became  sweet  to  him,  thrown  into  relief  by  the  work  on 
either  side  of  them,  and  because  he  had  earned  them.  And 
the  work  of  his  hands  left  his  mind  free,  also  his  ears  and 
his  tongue,  if  there  was  any  one  upon  whom  to  practise 
them.  If  he  had  been  free  to  go  about,  the  long  hours  he 
spent  over  it  would  have  been  irksome  to  him,  but  in  his 
enforced  state  of  quiescence  they  had  exactly  the  opposite 
effect ;  idleness  would  have  been  wearisome,  in  a  way  that 
no  work  is. 

It  was  very  fine  nearly  the  whole  time  he  stayed  at  this 
place.  There  were  few  days  in  which  he  could  not  do 
his  work  out  of  doors.  Breakfast  was  always  early  in 
the  cottage,  for  there  was  so  much  to  do  in  the  day.  It 
was  also  very  frugal,  and  in  spite  of  his  inactivity  Pippin 


298  PIPPIN 

was  often  ravenously  hungry  before  the  mid-day  dinner, 
at  which  there  was  always  enough  for  his  healthy  appetite. 
Mrs.  Collinson  saw  to  that,  and  pressed  him  to  eat  as 
much  as  he  could,  but  he  was  often  ashamed  of  the  extent 
to  which  he  obeyed  her.  Appetite  became  a  thing  not  to 
be  indulged  whenever  it  made  itself  felt,  and  there  was 
some  satisfaction  in  curbing  it.  That  was  one  lesson  he 
learned. 

The  morning  hours  would  go  by  very  pleasantly.  The 
sea  was  always  before  him  as  he  sat  by  a  bush  of  tamarisk 
and  a  hardy  fuchsia  that  grew  under  the  cottage  wall. 
There  was  always  something  to  look  at  in  the  sea — the 
fishing  boats  and  the  coastal  vessels,  and  sometimes 
farther  out  a  large  steamer.  The  gulls  cried  about  the 
cliffs,  or  floated  out  over  the  ocean,  or  sat  rocking  on  its 
waves.  The  cloud  shadows  and  the  currents  made  the 
surface  infinitely  varied  in  colour.  There  were  delicious 
tones  of  green  in  it,  and  blue  and  amethyst  and  dark 
grape-colour.  It  was  a  continual  solace  to  the  eye  as 
well  as  an  interest  to  the  mind. 

Mrs.  Collinson  seldom  rested  from  her  labours  during 
the  morning.  She  was  about  the  house  or  the  garden  or 
the  little  farmyard  all  the  time,  as  busy  as  possible.  Old 
people  used  to  a  life  of  active  work  seem  to  acquire  a 
latent  store  of  energy  which  drives  them  to  incessant 
movement.  They  cannot  idle  for  a  few  minutes  at  a  time, 
but  must  get  their  rest  by  relaxing  altogether  when  their 
tasks  are  done.  Lydia  seconded  her  in  all  her  work,  but 
her  young  body  was  not  quite  inured  to  unyielding  labour, 
though  there  was  more  strength  in  it  than  in  her  grand- 
mother's. The  old  woman  never  hurried  her  to  work, 
and  she  would  often  come  round  the  corner  of  the  cottage, 


PIPPIN    WORKS   AND   GETS    TIRED    299 

and  stand  talking  to  Pippin  for  a  few  minutes,  or  throw 
herself  upon  the  sun-warmed  turf,  closely  nibbled  by  the 
rabbits  which  abounded  in  the  rough  ground  between  the 
cottage  and  the  cliff  top. 

The  big  break  for  all  three  of  them  came  at  dinner  time, 
which  was  at  twelve  o'clock.  The  old  woman  would  sit 
awhile  after  they  had  finished,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  quite 
still,  hardly  using  any  of  the  muscles  in  her  body.  She 
would  talk  about  the  interests  of  her  daily  life  of  work, 
about  her  neighbours,  sometimes  about  incidents  of  her 
earlier  life.  There  was  plenty  to  talk  about.  She  read 
no  newspaper,  and  had  curious  notions  of  the  world  out- 
side the  few  square  miles  of  it  which  her  eyes  had  seen, 
but  was  interested  in  everything  she  heard,  and  could 
make  shrewd  comments  on  it.  There  was  no  tedium  in 
her  life,  which  was  so  full  of  multifarious  duties  that  the 
problem  was  not  to  find  occupation  for  the  hours,  but 
hours  for  the  occupation.  And  yet  there  was  always  time 
to  be  found  if  it  was  a  question  of  help  to  her  neighbours, 
in  sickness  or  in  any  kind  of  trouble.  Sunday  was  her 
only  day  of  rest.  There  was  rather  more  to  be  done  in 
it  of  necessity  than  would  have  made  a  working  day  for 
most  women ;  but  by  contrast  it  was  a  day  of  leisure,  and 
for  a  few  hours  in  the  afternoon  and  evening  she  did  give 
herself  a  rest,  sitting  in  her  high-backed  wooden  chair  by 
the  close-shut  window  with  the  prided  pot-plants  arranged 
along  the  sill,  dressed  in  her  plain  black  gown,  with  a  little 
black  silk  apron  instead  of  the  white  one  which  she  was 
never  without  at  other  times,  her  Sunday  cap  on  her  head, 
her  old  lined  face  set  in  a  cast  of  tranquillity.  She  read 
her  Bible,  which  was  the  only  print  she  ever  read,  until 
she  nodded  under  the  unwonted  influence  of  the  hour,  woke 


300  PIPPIN 

up,  read  a  little  more,  and  nodded  again.  Her  figure,  on 
those  hot  still  Sunday  afternoons,  always  stood  after- 
wards for  Pippin  as  the  very  type  and  emblem  of  peace. 
The  contrast  between  that  and  her  usual  state  of  industry 
was  as  if  a  continuous  loud  noise  which  had  been  going  on 
all  the  week  and  to  which  the  ear  had  accustomed  itself, 
should  cease  and  give  place  to  silence  for  the  space  of  two 
hours.  It  was  almost  oppressive.  The  cheerful  clatter 
of  teacups  which  brought  it  to  an  end  was  a  welcome  relief. 
When  they  had  been  cleared  away,  and  a  few  evening 
duties  performed,  the  relaxation  took  on  another  more 
sociable  aspect.  A  vast  tract  of  leisure  opened  itself  out 
before  it  was  time  to  go  to  the  chapel,  a  burst  of  activity 
between  the  service  and  supper,  and  another  period  of 
leisure  until  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed,  and  leisure  was  at 
an  end  altogether  for  six  days  to  come. 

Pippin  thought  of  many  things  during  the  hours  in 
which  he  worked  at  his  nets  that  he  would  not  have 
thought  of  if  he  had  been  leading  a  more  active  life,  and  he 
thought  sometimes  about  old  Mrs.  Collinson,  who  showed 
affection  for  him.  She  had  so  little,  and  yet  she  had  so 
much.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  imagine  anybody 
with  a  life  that  more  filled  itself  out  in  every  moment.  Its 
apparent  sameness  did  away  with  monotony,  for  the  mi- 
nute changes  of  occupation  varied  it  in  texture,  and  any 
little  change  that  came  into  it  had  the  same  effect  as  a  big 
change  in  a  life  of  wider  range.  He  saw  hers  as  an  envi- 
able state  for  one  drawing  near  to  the  end  of  life,  but  not 
yet  disabled  for  its  struggles.  And  he  thought  that  what 
was  good  for  her  was  good  for  Lydia. 

Lydia  was  being  trained  to  the  life  of  labour  and  en- 
durance which  the  old  woman  had  battled  through,  to  an 


PIPPIN   WORKS   AND   GETS    TIRED   301 

old  age  of  mental  if  not  bodily  tranquillity.  But  there 
was  a  long  road  before  her,  in  which  her  training  might  be 
severely  tested.  She  had  not  yet  been  tried  by  its  troubles 
and  difficulties,  which  are  different  for  everybody,  and 
cannot  be  foreseen,  or  guarded  against,  except  by  building 
up  fortitude  with  which  to  meet  them  as  they  come.  In 
his  satisfaction  with  a  transient  state  of  life  not  natural 
to  his  youth  or  circumstances,  he  saw  her  as  fortunate  in 
the  beginnings  of  her  life,  spared  the  discontent  that 
might  have  attended  a  better  endowed  condition,  and  with 
nothing  lacking  at  present  that  she  need  desire.  But 
what  he  found  unexpectedly  satisfactory  in  his  present 
mode  of  life  would  not  satisfy  him  for  long;  he  was  only 
experimenting  with  this  strenuous  work  and  its  modest  re- 
ward ;  there  was  another  kind  of  life  awaiting  him.  There 
was  none  awaiting  Lydia,  so  it  was  all  the  more  important 
that  she  should  see  the  advantages  of  her  appointed  lot. 
He  was  inclined  to  be  didactic  with  her  about  it,  for  he 
was  very  pleased  with  himself  for  taking  up  this  life  of 
toil,  and  finding  it  a  good  life.  It  made  a  philosopher  of 
him  before  his  time,  and  he  wanted  to  pass  on  the  great 
lessons  he  had  learned,  to  somebody  who  could  profit  by 
them. 

Lydia  would  sit  by  his  side  on  the  grass  and  listen  to 
him.  She  thought  him  very  wise — wonderfully  so  for  one 
of  his  years — and  was  glad  to  know  that  he  was  not  too 
much  burdened  by  the  necessity  of  working  hard  for 
his  living.  But  she  was  not  so  quick  in  applying  his  pre- 
dications to  herself  as  he  could  have  wished. 

"Oh,  I  know  that  you  have  to  work,  and  work  very 
hard  if  you  are  poor,"  she  said.  "You  ought  not  to  mind, 
especially  if  you  are  working  for  somebody  you  love,  as  I 


302  PIPPIN 

love  Granny.  I  shouldn't  be  happy  if  I  were  idle  when 
there  was  work  to  be  done;  hut  sometimes  I  wish  I  could 
have  Bome  more  holidays.  Dots  vour  cousin  Alison  work 
hard?" 

She  was  very  interested  in  his  cousin,  Alison,  and  asked 
him  many  questions  ahout  her,  which  he  was  usually 
pleased  to  answer.  But  Alison  was  not  a  case  in  point  just 
now. 

"She  has  a  good  deal  to  do  in  her  home,"  he  said,  "and 
is  always  diligent  and  cheerful  about  doing  it.  So  are 
you,  I  know.  You  are  very  much  like  her  in  that  way. 
But  that  isn't  what  I  meant  exactly." 

He  did  not  tell  her  what  he  did  mean  exactly,  which  was 
that  he  had  cast  her  in  his  mind  for  a  state  of  life  in  which 
there  would  be  more  work  than  was  necessary  for  Alison 
to  do.  You  cannot  always  say  what  you  mean  when  you 
are  preaching  to  others  for  their  good,  from  a  position 
superior  to  theirs.  "I  am  thinking  of  your  grand- 
mother," he  said.  "She  works  very  hard,  and  yet  she  is 
happy  in  her  life." 

Lydia  sighed.  "I  wish  she  didn't  have  to  work  quite  so 
hard,"  she  said.  "She  is  getting  old,  but  she  must  go  on 
as  long  as  she  can,  so  that  she  will  have  enough  when  she 
can't  work  any  longer.  But  when  she  gets  past  it  I  shall 
be  able  to  work  for  her,  so  I  often  tell  her  not  to  worry. 
She  has  always  been  very  good  to  me,  and  some  day  I 
shall  be  able  to  do  something  for  her  in  return." 

Pippin  had  not  enough  taken  into  account  the  shadow 
that  lies  over  the  work  of  the  poor,  where  it  suffices  for 
little  more  than  the  needs  of  the  moment,  and  provision 
for  a  future  in  which  the  power  to  work  is  failing,  or  has 
tailed  altogether,  is  hard  to  make.      His  self-satisfaction 


PIPPIN   WORKS   AND   GETS    TIRED   303 

in  his  recent  discovery  was  a  little  pricked.  But  his  mind 
was  generous  underneath  its  thin  crust  of  youthful  self- 
sufficiency.  It  adjusted  itself  to  Lydia's  outlook  upon 
work,  which  was  different  from  that  which  he  had  been 
expounding,  though  not  perhaps  less  commendable.  "It 
makes  everything  better  worth  doing  if  you  do  it  for  love 
of  somebody  else,"  he  said,  and  Lydia  liked  this  speech 
better  than  any  he  had  made  on  the  subject,  and  admired 
him  for  making  it. 

The  weeks  went  by.  The  time  came  when  Pippin  could 
discard  his  crutch,  and  walk  about  with  only  his  stout 
stick  for  support,  though  slowly  and  for  short  distances  at 
first.  Ben,  who  had  resigned  himself  to  his  inertion, 
spending  long  hours  asleep  by  his  side,  and  only  leaving 
him  when  he  was  impelled  to  obey  the  call  of  his  nature 
for  action,  showed  himself  overjoyed  at  this  revival  of 
movement  on  his  master's  part.  He  covered  twenty  miles 
for  Pippin's  one,  but  constantly  came  back  to  him  as  he 
walked  slowly  along  the  road  to  express  his  pleasure  at 
this  new  discovery  of  his,  that  to  set  yourself  in  motion 
was  so  much  better  than  to  sit  for  hours  with  one  leg 
stretched  in  front  of  you.  Legs  were  meant  to  move 
about  with.  Now  wouldn't  he  just  try  for  once  to  move  it 
at  a  faster  pace?  He  was  sure  to  enjoy  it.  Oh,  very 
well !  if  that  crawl  was  all  he  felt  inclined  for,  perhaps  he 
wouldn't  object  to  his  leaving  him  again  for  a  good 
stretch.  "See  that  sheep  looking  at  us  over  there? 
Watch  me  bustle  her  up." 

When  the  time  came  for  him  to  walk,  Pijnpin  lost  some 
of  his  interest  in  the  work,  the  steady  pursuit  of  which  had 
so  set  him  up  with  himself.  As  long  as  he  could  do  no 
more  than  a  few  yards  to  and  fro  he  kept  to  his  appointed 


304-  PIPPIN 

hours  of  exercise,  which  he  had  taken  hitherto  with  his 
crutch.  But  when  he  could  go  faster,  it  seemed  advis- 
able for  his  health's  sake  to  do  so,  and  to  take  more  time 
for  it.  By  now  he  had  money  in  hand  again,  but  not  yet 
BO  much  as  he  had  decided  to  take  away  with  him  when  he 
should  be  strong  enough  to  renew  his  journeyings.  He 
must  not  falter  in  that  decision.  He  had  been  more  con- 
tent to  stay  and  work  in  this  place  than  he  could  have 
anticipated,  but  he  did  not  want  to  engage  himself  for 
another  period  of  work  for  some  time  to  come.  He  must 
have  enough  at  least  to  carry  him  to  the  great  city,  and  to 
enjoy  its  sights  and  pleasures  for  a  time  before  settling 
to  work  again. 

But  his  hours  of  work  steadily  decreased.  It  was  de- 
lightful to  find  his  strength  coming  back  to  him  again, 
and  there  was  so  much  that  he  had  been  hearing  about 
which  he  wanted  to  see.  He  had  come  to  know  many  of 
the  people  whose  social  centre  was  in  this  hamlet.  There 
was  this  man's  stock  to  be  seen,  that  man's  house  or  gar- 
den or  orchard.  And  all  of  them  made  him  welcome  in 
their  homes ;  it  would  have  been  ungracious  to  refuse  their 
hospitality.  And  there  was  the  little  group  of  fishermen, 
who  lived  about  an  inlet  that  had  been  just  beyond  his 
reach  until  he  could  walk  without  his  crutch.  When  he 
once  got  over  there  he  found  it  so  interesting  that  he 
must  go  often ;  and  as  the  legs  are  called  upon  for  less 
exertion  in  a  boat  than  upon  dry  land  he  was  able  to  take 
part  in  the  fascinating  pursuit  of  sea-fishing  before  he 
could  use  them  much  for  other  purposes.  The  fishing  was 
often  done  at  night,  and  then  he  would  sleep  on  in  the 
morning.  Airs.  Collinson  and  Lydia  had  been  sometimes 
up  for  hours  by  the  time  he  settled  himself  to  his  net. 


PIPPIN    WORKS    AND    GETS    TIRED    305 

But  the  old  woman  would  never  consent  to  wake  him.  It 
was  good  for  young  people  to  sleep,  she  said,  and  when 
there  was  no  work  that  they  need  do  let  them  sleep  as  long 
as  they  liked.  She  could  never  be  brought  to  take  Pip- 
pin's net-making  very  seriously. 

Nor  apparently  did  the  doctor.  Pippin  would  often 
spend  an  hour  with  him  in  the  evening  in  his  untidy  but 
comfortable  room,  which  smelt  of  tobacco  and  a  little  of 
medicaments.  He  had  been  rather  afraid  of  him  at  first, 
for  in  spite  of  the  unceasing  attention  he  had  paid  him 
over  his  mishap  the  doctor  had  seemed  to  lose  no  op- 
portunity of  making  him  small  in  his  own  eyes.  But  Pip- 
pin was  at  heart  a  modest  youth,  and  had  lately  dis- 
covered a  few  things  in  himself  that  wanted  altering ;  and 
he  knew  somehow  that  the  doctor  was  fond  of  him.  More- 
over he  was  not  so  constituted  as  to  sit  meekly  under  re- 
buke and  then  go  away  and  bear  resentment.  He  held 
his  own  with  the  doctor,  and  they  got  on  very  well  to- 
gether. 

"I  should  think  you  must  have  made  enough  money  for 
the  present,"  said  the  doctor,  when  Pippin  half  apolo- 
gized for  taking  so  much  time  from  his  work.  "You  have 
stuck  to  it  well  enough  while  you  couldn't  do  anything 
else,  and  I  am  sure  you  have  given  us  all  a  lesson.  But 
if  you  have  left  home,  as  you  tell  me,  for  the  sake  of  see- 
ing all  the  life  you  can,  you'll  see  more  of  it  by  going  about 
among  your  neighbours  here  than  by  sitting  still.  Be- 
sides, you  ought  to  exercise  your  leg,  and  get  your  muscles 
stronger  by  degrees." 

So  Pippin  felt  himself  absolved,  though  he  could  not 
disguise  from  himself  that  he  was  not  carrying  out  his 
original  intention.     But  he  forgave  himself  that.     It  did 


306  PIPPIN 

not  seem  so  necessary  now  to  preach  the  gospel  of  work 
in  this  place,  and  to  show  a  shining  example  of  his 
precepts. 

Very  soon  after  he  began  to  get  about  again  the  idea  of 
continuing  his  journey  came  to  him.  He  had  not  given 
it  much  thought  since  his  accident.  He  was  well  enough 
off  where  he  was  for  the  present,  and  could  not  have 
moved  for  some  time  if  he  had  wanted  to.  But  with  re- 
turning strength  came  the  desire  to  move  on,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  he  decided  upon  the  time  for  his  departure. 
When  he  had  once  done  that  he  wanted  the  day  hastened. 
He  was  restless  now.  He  had  stayed  for  too  long  in  one 
place.      It  would  be  good  to  be  on  the  road  again. 

He  took  supper  with  the  doctor  on  the  last  evening,  and 
they  talked  together  very  amicably  afterwards.  The 
doctor  must  have  seen  that  a  close  tie  between  him  and 
the  child  he  loved  was  not  to  be  hoped  for,  and  had  given 
up  trying  to  influence  him  in  that  direction.  On  this  last 
evening  he  showed  nothing  but  liking  for  him,  mixed  with 
no  disapproval. 

"I  don't  suppose  we  shall  ever  meet  again,"  he  said. 
"We  live  at  opposite  ends  of  the  country,  and  we  are  not 
of  the  sort  of  people  who  are  always  running  about  it. 
But  I  shan't  forget  3'ou,  and  there  arc  many  of  the  friends 
you  have  made  here  of  whom  the  same  may  he  said.  I 
hope  that  will  always  be  a  pleasant  recollection  to  you. 
When  you  have  once  got  to  know  people  you  never  quite 
lose  them,  even  people  you  never  see  again.  They  make 
a  mark  on  your  life." 

They  wire  standing  under  the  porch  of  the  doctor's 
house  underneath   a  sky   of  bright   stars.     "The  time   I 


PIPPIN    WORKS   AND   GETS    TIRED    307 

have  spent  here  has  made  a  mark  on  mine,"  Pippin  spoke 
up.     "You  have  taught  me  a  good  deal,  for  one." 

The  doctor  blew  his  nose.  "I  talk  a  great  deal,"  he 
said  drily.  "It  would  be  a  pity  if  some  one  didn't  learn 
something  from  it  all."  Then  he  wrung  Pippin's  hand 
very  warmly,  and  went  indoors. 

Pippin  walked  home,  with  Ben  at  his  heels,  and  walked 
slowly,  for  he  was  suddenly  regretful  to  be  leaving  this 
place  which  had  been  his  home  now  for  many  weeks  back. 
He  had  formed  ties  in  it,  which  he  was  upon  the  point  of 
breaking.  The  life  in  it  would  go  on,  though  he  would 
not  be  there  to  mix  with  it.  In  the  stillness  of  the  night 
the  place  itself  seemed  to  possess  a  personality  and  an 
abiding  life  of  its  own.  It  was  a  solacing  thought  that 
he  would  leave  memories  behind  him,  as  well  as  take  them 
away  with  him.  For  some  years  at  least  he  would  count 
for  something  here  in  the  thoughts  of  those  he  was  to 
leave. 

The  cottage  was  dark  as  he  came  to  it.  He  went  on  to 
the  cliff-top  and  looked  over  the  sea,  and  down  towards 
the  rocks  where  he  had  lain  in  suffering ;  but  that  was  now 
so  long  ago  and  he  had  become  so  completely  restored  that 
he  hardly  seemed  to  have  been  the  same  person. 

It  was  what  had  happened  since  that  aroused  his 
emotions — the  serenity  of  convalescence,  the  peace  of  the 
long  quiet  summer  days,  his  participation  in  the  simple 
life  of  the  cottage,  the  companionships,  the  community 
of  pursuits.  Yet  he  had  been  happy  here,  certainly  as 
happy  as  at  any  time  since  he  had  left  his  home.  Yet 
there  had  been  nothing  to  excite  him  to  pleasure,  for  some 
time  he  had  been  in  pain  and  discomfort,  and  for  some 


308  PITPIN 

time  longer  lie  had  been  at  work,  more  arduously  than  at 
any  time  in  his  life.  For  the  moment,  at  least,  he  would 
rather  have  stayed  here  than  gone  away. 

Hut  he  arose  very  early  the  next  morning  with  pleasur- 
able anticipations  of  his  journey,  and  whistled  to  himself 
as  he  made  hi>  preparations  in  the  little  whitewashed 
room  under  the  eaves  that  had  been  his  for  so  long. 
Early  as  he  was,  Mrs.  Collinson  and  Lydia  were  up  before 
him.  Lydia  often  sang  over  her  work  in  these  early 
morning  hours,  as  he  whistled,  but  she  was  not  singing  this 
morning.  She  gave  him  bright  welcome  as  he  clattered 
down  the  narrow  stairs  into  the  kitchen,  and  her  grand- 
mother did  the  same,  bending  over  a  savoury  stew  upon 
the  fire;  for  he  was  to  eat  heartily  to  support  him  on  his 
journey,  and  if  she  was  sorry  to  be  losing  him  she  could 
best  express  her  regret  by  generous  treatment  of  his 
last  moments. 

They  came  to  the  door  with  him  and  he  kissed  them  both 
good-bye,  the  old  woman  because  she  had  been  so  kind  to 
him,  and  the  girl  for  much  the  same  reason.  He  turned 
once  to  look  back  and  wave  to  them,  still  standing  in  the 
doorway,  and  when  he  was  out  of  sight  they  both  went 
back  to  the  work  which  had  seemed  to  him  so  good 
for  them. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  GREAT   CITY 

It  was  on  a  dull  evening  of  lowering  clouds  and  a  chilly 
wind  that  Pippin  came  to  the  great  city.  He  had  walked 
all  day  along  on  a  wide  high-road  that  passed  through 
neither  town  nor  country,  and  though  now  he  was  among 
streets  of  houses  he  was  still  only  on  the  outskirts.  But 
he  was  tired  and  hungry,  and  in  a  mood  of  depression. 
He  would  find  an  inn  and  rest  here  for  the  night.  The 
sun  might  shine  again  on  the  morrow,  and  his  first  view 
of  the  glories  of  the  city,  of  which  this  mean  crowded 
neighbourhood  gave  small  promise,  would  be  taken  with 
happier  effect. 

But  he  was  beginning  to  doubt  whether  the  glories  of 
the  city  were  as  he  had  once  imagined  them.  He  had  seen 
large  towns,  travelling  with  the  circus,  and  upon  his 
steady  tramp  from  the  quiet  place  in  which  he  had  said 
good-bye  to  the  summer,  and  they  had  pleased  him  very 
much  less  than  the  small  ones.  Nothing  that  was  to  be 
seen  in  the  way  of  fine  buildings,  of  great  shows  in  shop 
windows,  of  the  gay  and  splendid  life  of  the  rich,  which  in 
any  case  he  must  see  from  the  outside,  was  likely  to  make 
up  for  the  sensation  of  loneliness,  which  always  attended 
him  when  he  walked  among  a  crowd  of  people,  all  strangers 
to  him. 

He  felt  more  lonely  than  ever  as  he  trod  the  hard  pave- 
ments on  this  last  evening  of  his  journey,  with  Ben  keeping 

close  to  his  heels,  an  unhappy  dog  if  ever  there  was  one, 

309 


.310  PIPPIN 

not  understanding  at  all  what  these  strange  legs  all  about 
him  could  mean,  but  knowing  well  that  no  whiff  of  friend- 
ship could  be  expected  from  any  pair  of  them.  Pippin 
had  taken  the  light  pack  from  his  shoulders,  and  carried 
it  on  his  arm,  so  as  to  make  himself  less  conspicuous 
among  all  the  city  dwellers.  But  his  unlikeness  to  them 
was  still  so  marked  that  there  was  hardly  one  of  all  those 
he  passed  who  did  not  look  at  him  with  curiosity;  and 
there  were  some  who  jeered  at  his  count  ry  look  and  his 
worn  country  clothes.  For  your  town  dweller  is  apt  to 
think  of  himself  as  on  the  pinnacle-  of  civilization,  and  to 
find  impertinence  in  those  who  do  not  conform  to  his 
standards.  In  his  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  the  city, 
Pippin  had  an  increase  of  dejection  at  their  taunts, 
though  there  were  not  many  of  those  who  uttered  them 
who  seemed  to  have  much  upon  which  to  pride  themselves 
that  was  lacking  in  him.  In  his  rough  homespuns  he 
strode  along  the  pavements  with  the  lustihood  of  youth, 
health,  and  practised  muscles.  Though  he  was  at  the 
end  of  a  long  day's  tramp,  he  could  still  have  out- 
walked any  of  those  who  expressed  their  contempt  for 
him. 

Pippin  had  slept  in  inns  good  and  bad,  large  and  small, 
during  his  last  fortnight's  walking,  sometimes  in  cottages, 
and  once  in  a  barn.  But  here  there  seemed  to  be  nothing 
that  would  provide  him  with  a  supper  and  a  bed.  The 
inns  seemed  to  have  ceased  with  the  closing  in  on  him 
of  the  streets.  There  were  only  large  and  resplendent 
public-houses,  and  some  smaller  ones,  none  of  which,  how- 
ever, approached  his  idea  of  an  inn  for  rest  and  refresh- 
ment for  travellers.  Men  went  in  and  out  of  them,  and 
women  too,  but  only  to  drink,  and  perhaps  to  talk.      He 


THE    GREAT    CITY  311 

walked  for  a  mile  between  the  shops  and  houses   before 
he  could  make  up  his  mind  to  enter  one  of  them. 

He  chose  it  because  there  was  a  notice  up  of  beds  to  be 
let.  It  was  a  large  elaborately  bedecked  corner  house 
with  lights  blazing  about  its  windows ;  for  dusk  was  com- 
ing on  now,  and  an  impression  of  cheerfulness  and  welcome 
must  be  created  at  the  earliest  opportunity. 

He  pushed  open  a  swinging  door  and  found  himself  in 
a  large  brightly  lit  bar-room,  with  people  sitting  on  plush- 
covered  benches  under  the  windows,  or  standing  before  the 
bar,  drinking,  smoking,  and  for  the  most  part  arguing. 
The  air  was  stale  and  heavy,  in  spite  of  the  height  of  the 
room,  the  garish  lights  seemed  dimmed  by  the  haze  of 
smoke.  Behind  the  bar  with  all  its  apparatus  for  the  serv- 
ing of  liquors  stood  a  large  commanding  woman  dressed 
in  tightly  fitting  black  with  a  wonderful  pile  of  braided 
auburn  hair  on  her  head,  and  a  face  emboldened  to  the 
personation  of  youth  by  a  lavish  application  of  powder 
and  pigments.  She  was  engaged  in  high-voiced  contest 
of  wit  with  two  flashy-looking  men  who  stood  with  their 
glasses  on  the  counter.  All  of  them  broke  off  to  stare 
in  amazement  at  Pippin  coming  up  to  them  with  Ben  at 
his  heels,  and  indeed  there  was  a  lull  in  the  general  clatter 
of  talk  at  so  unusual  an  appearance.  But  it  started 
again  almost  immediately.  Most  of  those  present  had 
seen  a  country  lad  before,  at  some  time  or  another,  and 
their  own  affairs  were  more  interesting  than  he  was. 

Pippin  asked  the  lady  at  the  bar  whether  he  could  have 
supper  and  a  bed.  She  surveyed  him  with  some  haughti- 
ness, though  with  a  not  unkindly  look  in  her  tired  eyes. 
"I  don't  know  about  supper,"  she  said.  "We  don't  serve 
meals  here.     I  dare  say  you  can  have  a  bed ;"  and  she 


312  PIPPIN 

called  to  the  landlord,  who  came  out  from  behind  a  glass 
and  mahogany  screen  that  divided  this  large  room  from 
a  smaller  one,  in  which  there  was  accommodation  for 
topers  of  exclusive  tastes. 

The  landlord  carried  a  paunch  as  if  it  were  an  orna- 
ment,  and  a  double  chin  as  if  he  preferred  it  to  a  single. 
His  hair  was  plastered  into  a  curve  on  his  forehead,  and 
his  eye  was  mean  and  shifty.  He  looked  Pippin  over  with 
as  rtiuch  condescension  as  the  barmaid  had  used,  but  with 
more  suspicion.  "I  should  like  to  see  the  colour  of  your 
money  first,"  he  said. 

Pippin  took  a  handful  of  silver  from  his  pocket,  and 
planted  it  down  on  the  counter.  His  impulse  wTas  to  throw 
it  in  the  landlord's  fat  face,  but  it  was  as  well  that  he 
resisted  it,  for  this  was  all  the  money  that  he  had  left  to 
him. 

But  the  landlord  did  not  know  that,  and  the  prodigal 
display  changed  his  note.  "Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  said 
half  grudgingly,  half  subserviently.  "I  can't  afford  not  to 
be  careful  where  there's  so  many  as  look  all  right  outside 
and  it  don't  go  beyond  the  outside.     Come  with  me,  sir." 

Pippin  took  up  his  money  and  followed  him  into  the 
regions  behind  the  bar,  Ben  pressing  on  with  him,  with  a 
revival  of  curiosity.  "That's  a  nice  dog  of  yours,"  said 
the  landlord,  doubtfully.  "But  you  ought  to  have  him 
muzzled." 

Pippin  laughed.     "He's  as  gentle  as  a  kitten,"  he  said. 

"That  may  be,  but  he  wants  a  muzzle,"  said  the  land- 
lord. "He  can't  sleep  in  your  room,  you  know,  if  that's 
what  you  want." 

"Yes  he  can,"  said  Pippin,  and  the  landlord  said  that 
the  charge  would  be  extra. 


THE    GREAT    CITY  313 

Pippin  did  not  ask  what  the  charge  would  be,  but 
expressed  himself  satisfied  with  the  stuffy  little  room  to 
which  he  was  introduced.  The  bed  was  clean,  and  he 
proposed  to  occupy  it  for  only  one  night. 

The  landlord  told  him  where  to  find  an  eating-house 
a  few  yards  farther  up  the  road,  and  he  went  there  at 
once,  for  he  was  ravenously  hungry. 

He  ate  and  drank  his  fill,  and  a  friendly  serving-girl 
provided  for  Ben's  needs  as  well  as  his.  The  charge  was 
less  than  he  had  expected,  and  he  hoped  that  the  payment 
exacted  for  his  night's  accommodation  would  be  on  the 
same  scale.  For  he  had  entered  the  city  with  no  more  than 
enough  for  two  days  of  living,  or  three  if  he  was  very 
careful,  and  the  necessity  of  finding  work  was  weighing 
upon  him. 

But  food  and  drink  are  solvents  of  more  than  bodily 
discomfort.  "Who  babbles  of  the  hardships  of  poverty  or 
of  military  service  after  wine?"  asked  the  poet  long  ago, 
and  although  Pippin  had  drunk  no  wine  with  his  meal  he 
left  it  inclined  to  make  the  best  of  things. 

The  clouds  had  thinned  when  he  came  out  of  the  eating- 
house ;  the  moon  shone  in  a  watery  sky,  and  the  keen 
autumn  air  freshened  even  those  hemmed-in  streets,  which 
seemed  bright  and  inviting,  with  their  meanness  trans- 
formed by  the  bright  lights  and  the  movements  of  the 
crowd  into  something  different  from  their  daylight  as- 
pect. It  was,  after  all,  rather  exciting  to  be  one  of  the 
crowd,  even  though  he  and  Ben  were  alone  in  it.  He  had 
set  foot  at  last  in  the  great  city,  and  belonged  to  it  for 
a  time,  as  they  did.  He  had  his  strong  body  and  his 
active  brain.  It  would  be  an  adventure  to  market  them, 
and  he  did  not  doubt  but  what  he  could  earn  his  living  in 


.314  TIFPIN 

this  place  as  well  as  any  other,  and  enjoy  the  novelty  of  it. 

He  strolled  along  with  the  crowd  until  he  was  stopped 
by  a  young  but  peremptory  policeman,  who  asked  if  Ben 
belonged  to  him,  as  he  obviously  did,  and  then  asked 
further  why  he  was  not  wearing  a  muzzle. 

It  took  Pippin  some  time  to  understand  that  this  was 
an  obligation  of  law  at  that  time  and  in  that  place,  but 
by  a  stroke  of  luck  the  young  policeman,  who  at  first 
seemed  to  hint  that  only  the  capital  penalty  would  purge 
his  offence,  conjectured  from  some  inflexion  in  his  speech 
that  he  came  from  the  same  part  of  the  country  as  him- 
self, and  was  so  pleased  to  find  his  surmise  true  that  he 
incontinently  transformed  himself  from  the  role  of  ac- 
cuser, judge,  jury,  and  executioner,  all  in  one,  into  that 
of  protector  and  helper.  He  uttered  harsh  rebuke  of  the 
crowd  that  had  gathered  around  them  for  blocking  up  the 
thoroughfare,  and  said  that  if  they  did  not  instantly  dis- 
perse there  would  be  some  names  taken,  and  trouble  would 
come  of  it.  Then  he  said  to  Pippin:  "You  come  along 
with  me,  and  I'll  make  it  all  right  for  you." 

He  took  him  to  the  police  station,  where  by  another 
stroke  of  luck  his  superior  officer  had  a  muzzle  that  would 
just  fit  Ben,  which  he  was  prepared  to  sell  at  a  price. 
The  price  struck  Pippin  as  high,  for  a  second-hand  muzzle 
which  did  not  fit  well,  in  spite  of  the  encomiums  passed 
upon  it,  and  it  considerably  reduced  his  remaining  stock 
of  silver.  But  he  was  glad  enough  to  pay  it,  for  he  could 
not  have  bought  one  elsewhere  at  that  time  of  the  even- 
ing, and  would  have  had  to  part  with  Ben,  at  least  for 
the  night. 

The  sergeant  was  friendly  enough,  told  Pippin  he  had 
got  a  bargain,  and  made  much  of  Ben,  whose  surprise  at 


THE    GREAT    CITY  315 

having  this  indignity  thrust  upon  him  by  a  master  whom 
he  had  hitherto  trusted  in  everything  distressed  Pippin 
not  a  little.  The  sergeant  unbent  so  far  as  to  say  that  in 
his  opinion  the  law  that  dictated  it  was  a  rotten  law,  but 
explained  that  he  was  not  there  to  make  the  laws,  which 
he  hinted  he  could  have  made  better  than  those  who  were 
if  it  had  been  left  to  him,  but  to  see  that  they  were  carried 
out.  He  was  affability  itself  at  the  end  of  the  interview, 
asked  Pippin  questions  about  himself,  and  said  he  should 
always  be  pleased  to  help  him  out  of  a  mess  if  ever  he 
found  himself  in  one.  "I  think  we've  fixed  you  up  all  right 
this  time,"  he  said.  "Poor  old  Towser,  then!  Want  to 
get  rid  of  it,  do  you?  But  you'll  soon  get  used  to  it.  Now 
is  there  anything  else  I  can  do  for  you?  I  suppose  you've 
got  a  license  for  the  dog." 

Pippin  left  the  police  station  with  a  few  pence  in  his 
pocket,  besides  the  license,  without  which  he  might  not  keep 
Ben  by  him  as  a  friend.  He  went  straight  back  to  the 
hotel,  told  the  landlord  what  had  happened,  and  asked  him 
to  give  him  some  work  to  do  by  which  he  could  earn  his 
night's  lodging.  He  had  to  do  this  standing  in  the  bar, 
which  was  more  crowded  than  it  had  been  earlier  in  the 
evening,  and  the  necessity  of  it  was  bitter  to  him. 

The  landlord  was  contemptuous,  and  inclined  to  be 
abusive.  But  Pippin  saw  no  reason  why  he  should  support 
that.  "I've  told  you  how  it  was,"  he  said,  "and  I've  done 
you  no  harm.  As  I  had  engaged  the  room  I  thought  the 
fairest  thing  was  to  do  what  I  have  done.  If  you  have 
no  work  for  me  to  do,  say  so,  and  I'll  get  my  bag  and  go." 

The  landlord  was  not  melted  by  this  address.  "Here's 
a  young  gentleman,"  he  announced,  waving  a  dirty  hand 
to    his    audience,    "who    comes    'ere—"      But    he    got    no 


316  PIPPIN 

further.  The  auburn-haired  barmaid  broke  in  on  him. 
"Oil,  don't  make  such  a  to-do  about  it,"  she  said  in  her 
shrill  voice.  "The  boy  ain't  done  no  wrong.  There's 
plenty  he  can  do  to  help  me  till  closing-time,  and  he  can 
clean  out  the  bur  to-morrow  morning.  If  he's  out  of  a  job 
you'd  better  take  him  on  instead  of  Bob.  He's  got  one  of 
his  lazy  fits  on,  and  I  ain't  going  to  stay  here  and  do  his 
work  as  well  as  my  own.     I'm  sick  of  Bob,  and  you  too." 

"Go  it,  Jessie,"  said  a  frequenter,  with  his  elbow  on  the 
bar.      "Give  it  'im  'ot.     He  ain't  got  no  friends." 

She  turned  on  him  furiously.  "Here,  you  get  out  o' 
this,"  she  said,  seizing  his  glass  and  emptying  it  into  the 
sink  beneath  the  counter.  "I've  had  enough  of  your 
sauce,  and  your  ugly  face  too.     Get  out  of  it,  I  say." 

She  was  obeyed.  The  man  went  off*  grumbling.  There 
were  murmurs  of  sycophantic  admiration  from  the  rest. 
The  landlord's  face  wore  a  deprecatory  look.  "There, 
don't  take  on,  my  dear," 'he  said  soothingly.  "If  it's  a 
job  the  young  man  wants,  why — !  Can  you  use  your 
fists?"  he  asked  Pippin  with  a  grin. 

She  turned  on  him  again,  virago-like.  "We  ain't  going 
to  have  none  of  that  neither,"  she  stormed  at  him.  "/'ll 
send  Bob  about  his  business,  if  you  ain't  got  the  pluck  to 
do  it.  Call  yourself  a  man!  I  don't  know  why  I  stay  on 
with  you.  It  ain't  for  your  good  looks,  or  for  your  dirty 
money  either.      You  was  always  mean  with  that." 

"Well,  why  don't  you  go  then?"  enquired  the  landlord 
in  sulky  fury.  But  it  was  plain  that  she  ruled  him, 
and  those  who  frequented  the  house  too.  They  were  all 
silent  now,  enjoying  the  exhibition  of  her  mastery,  but 
not  without  a  fear  that  her  storming  tongue  might  be 
turned  at  any  moment  upon  one  of  them. 


THE    GREAT    CITY  317 

There  came  into  the  bar  a  big  man  in  shirtsleeves  and 
apron.  His  hair  was  cut  very  short,  and  the  bridge  of 
his  nose  was  broken.  He  was  wiping  his  mouth  with  the 
back  of  his  great  hand,  but  the  moment  he  came  in  he 
began  to  make  himself  inordinately  busy,  collecting  pewter 
pots  from  the  counter  with  a  clatter  of  the  metal. 

"Here,  you  drop  that,"  she  addressed  him.  "We've 
had  enough  of  you,  slinking  off  to  soak  and  gossip  when 
things  are  busiest.  You've  got  the  sack,  do  you  hear? 
Pay  him  his  month,"  she  said  to  the  landlord,  "and  let 
him  go,  now  at  once." 

The  big  man  looked  merely  surprised.  It  was  evident 
that  he  had  drunk  enough  to  muddle  his  brain;  also  that 
he  stood  in  some  awe  of  the  voluble  shrew  behind  the  bar. 

"This  young  man  is  took  on  in  your  place,"  she  said. 
"If  he  wastes  his  time  talking  and  drinking  he'll  go  the 
same  way  as  you,  and  in  double  quick  time.  So  now  he 
knows.     Drop  them  pewters  and  take  yourself  off." 

The  expression  of  the  man's  face  changed.  He  glow- 
ered at  Pippin  and  began  to  roll  up  the  sleeves  over  his 
powerful  arms.  The  barmaid  was  at  him  again  with  her 
strident  tongue,  and  the  landlord,  suddenly  authoritative, 
called  out:  "Now  we'll  have  no  fighting  here,"  but  made 
no  motion  towards  coming  from  behind  the  refuge  of  the 
bar.  None  of  the  spectators  showed  any  disposition  to 
interfere  either,  and  Pippin  found  himself  in  a  cleared 
space  confronted  by  a  man  half  as  heavy  again  as  he  was, 
and  if  the  signs  went  for  anything  a  fighter  by  trade,  who 
was  preparing  for  the  exercise  of  it. 

But  he  was  not  left  quite  alone.  At  the  first  threaten- 
ing motion  Ben  sprang  up,  bared  his  teeth  and  gave  a 
growl  such  as  had  never  yet  come  from  him.     But  his  in- 


318  pirriN 

stinct  was  to  protect  his  master,  and  gave  him  direction 
in  the  way  to  do  it.  The  man  took  no  notice  of  the 
threat;  perhaps  he  did  not  hear  it.  He  would  have  at- 
tacked the  next  moment,  but  Ben  sprang  at  him  with  all 
the  weight  and  power  of  his  body,  and  he  went  down  back- 
wards, unprepared  for  the  assault,  while  the  dog  tried  to 
get  his  teeth  into  his  throat,  but  was  prevented  by  the 
strong  wires  of  his  muzzle. 

It  was  all  over  in  less  than  a  minute.  Pippin  dragged 
Ben  off,  and  quieted  him.  The  man  rose  to  his  feet, 
hardly  understanding,  as  it  seemed,  what  had  happened  to 
him,  uttering  no  word  but  fingering  at  his  neck.  The 
landlord  grasped  at  his  authority,  now  that  the  bully 
whom  he  had  feared  had  been  worsted.  "Take  your 
money  and  go,"  he  said.  "If  you're  not  out  of  the  place 
in  ten  minutes  with  all  that  belongs  to  you  I'll  have  the 
police  in.  This  young  man  never  spoke  to  you,  and  you 
was  going  for  him  to  smash  him.  Everybody  here  saw 
it." 

He  picked  up  his  money  and  went  out,  still  dazed  and 
puzzled,  and  the  landlord  went  after  him,  strong  now  in 
his  sense  of  having  the  law  behind  him  to  punish  an  un- 
provoked assault  if  there  should  be  any  signs  of  further 
trouble. 

The  barmaid  suddenly  laughed.  "That's  good-bye  to 
Bob,"  she  said.  "He  was  never  no  good  to  anybody,  and 
it's  a  good  riddance.  Give  your  orders,  please;  I  can't 
stand  here  doing  nothing.  Here,  young  man,  you  make 
yourself  useful.  Take  these  pots  to  the  sink  behind  there 
ami  rinse  Vm  well.  You're  took  on  as  potman  to  the 
'King  William, *  and  you  got  me  to  thank  for  it." 

It  may  be  imagined  with  what  distaste  and  perplexity 


THE    GREAT    CITY  319 

of  mind  Pippin  set  himself  to  his  task.  It  was  hardly  five 
minutes  since  he  had  entered  the  house,  and  here  he  was 
apparently  a  permanent  part  of  its  organization.  The 
ugly  scene  that  had  just  passed  disgusted  him  beyond 
measure.  He  felt  a  loathing  for  all  who  had  taken  part 
in  it  or  looked  on  at  it,  and  the  mean  and  vile  place  in 
which  it  had  happened.  It  would  be  impossible  for  him 
to  stay  on  and  work  here.  What  had  he  said  that  had 
committed  him  to  it?  He  hadn't  opened  his  lips  since 
the  barmaid  had  suggested  his  being  taken  on,  until  he 
had  called  his  dog  off  the  man  who  had  wanted  to  fight 
him.  What  was  he  to  do?  Go  out  into  the  street  with 
Ben,  walk  about  all  night,  and  get  some  work  to  do  the 
next  day.  That  was  what  he  almost  made  up  his  mind  to ; 
but  something  urged  him  to  stay  and  see  it  through.  He 
had  got  himself  into  a  mess,  and  he  wouldn't  run  away 
from  it. 

With  this  decision  made  he  was  ready  for  the  landlord, 
who  came  to  him  pleased  at  having  got  rid  of  the  formid- 
able Bob  with  less  difficulty  than  would  have  seemed  pos- 
sible, and  prepared  to  take  quite  a  different  line  with  his 
successor. 

"He  went  like  a  lamb,"  he  said  with  a  satisfied  grin. 
"I  kept  on  threatening  him  with  the  police  if  he  didn't  go 
quiet,  and  we've  seen  the  last  of  his  ugly  face.  Now  then, 
young  man,  it's  a  stroke  of  luck  for  you  that  there's  his 
place  for  you  to  step  into.  I'll  take  you  on  for  a  month's 
trial  at  wages  to  be  settled  when  I  see  how  you  shape. 
You  can't  keep  your  dog  here,  but — " 

"Then  if  I  can't  keep  my  dog  here  that  settles  it,"  said 
Pippin.  "I've  started  working  for  my  bed  now.  I'll 
finish  that,  and  we'll  take  ourselves  off  to-morrow." 


320  PIPPIN 

It  was  the  barmaid,  lending  an  ear  to  the  conversation, 
who  said  that  of  course  he  could  keep  his  dog.  "It  was 
the  dog  that  got  rid  of  Bob  for  us — me  and  the  dog 
between  us,"  she  said.  "You'd  never  have  had  the  pluck 
to  do  it." 

So  that  point  was  conceded,  grudgingly,  and  Pippin 
said  further:  "I  never  had  any  idea  of  doing  work  of  this 
sort,  though  I  would  have  done  any  work  for  my  night's 
lodging,  as  I  couldn't  pay  what  I  had  undertaken.  I'll 
stay  with  you  until  you  can  get  somebody  else;  you  will 
pay  me  by  the  week,  and  you  will  pay  me  wages  that  you 
will  settle  now.  I  don't  suppose  there's  anything  to  do 
that  I  can't  learn  by  being  told  once,  and  you  won't  have 
anything  to  complain  of  on  that  score." 

He  felt  better  when  he  had  spoken  up  like  that.  The 
sense  of  degradation  left  him.  He  and  Ben  had  fallen  on 
a  queer  lot,  but  they  would  go  through  with  it  together. 
There  was  something  strengthening  in  shouldering  a 
burden,  and  he  could  lay  it  down  presently  without  having 
run  away  from  it. 

The  landlord  met  his  speech  with  an  alacrity  that  might 
have  caused  him  to  reflect  if  he  had  not  been  so  bewildered 
by  the  suddenness  with  which  everything  was  happening, 
and  immediately  offered  him  a  wage  that  sounded  not 
illiberal.  He  did  this  while  the  barmaid  was  out  of  hear- 
ing, but  Pippin  marked  his  sidelong  look  at  her,  and 
called  out  to  ask  if  the  offer  was  a  fair  one.  She  said  no, 
and  it  was  increased,  with  an  oath.  Pippin  Had  bound 
himself  to  this  uncongenial  occupation,  for  how  long  he 
did  not  know. 

It  was  not  until  after  midnight  that  he  shut  himself 
into  his  room,  tired  out  with  the  unaccustomed  work  he 


THE    GREAT    CITY  321 

had  been  doing  after  his  long  day's  tramp.  He  was  too 
tired  to  think  of  what  had  befallen  him,  or  even  to  feel 
unhappy  about  it.  Ben,  stretched  on  the  floor  by  the  side 
of  his  bed,  was  hardly  asleep  before  he  was. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

ONE     TAVERN     AND    ANOTHER 

Pippin  stayed  in  this  place  for  a  month.  It  took  him  as 
long  as  that  to  find  out  that  the  landlord's  efforts  to 
provide  a  substitute  for  him  were  a  pretence,  but  when  he 
did  he  told  him  that  he  was  going,  and  went,  without 
further  notice,  undisturbed  by  his  threat  of  the  police. 
He  had  learnt  a  good  deal  by  that  time,  not  only  of  the 
landlord  but  of  the  people  to  whose  baser  wants  he  spent 
his  days  and  part  of  his  nights  in  attending;  and  though 
he  did  his  service  willingly,  and  there  were  some  with 
whom  he  had  a  pleasant  word  occasionally,  in  the  mass  he 
despised  and  disliked  them.  There  was  a  rough  kindness 
about  Jessie,  the  barmaid,  which  somewhat  redeemed  her; 
but  her  temper  was  uncertain  at  the  best,  and  in  her  glar- 
ing coarseness  she  was  so  lacking  in  all  he  had  learnt  to 
respect  in  womanhood  that  he  had  much  ado  to  keep  on 
terms  with  her.  Fortunately  she  seemed  to  lose  interest 
in  him  when  he  was  once  installed  under  her  orders.  She 
only  came  in  the  evenings,  and  was  kept  busy  with  her 
work,  and  with  the  incessant  hard  dalliance  which  she  kept 
up  with  those  who  affected  admiration  of  her.  She  dis- 
pensed Pippin  from  taking  part  in  this  dreary  play,  and 
once  or  twice  during  a  lull  of  custom,  when  her  mood  was 
amiable,  she  spoke  a  natural  word  with  him.  But  these 
contingencies  seldom  arrived  together,  and  he  knew  no 
more  of  her  at  the  end  of  the  month  than  at  the  beginning, 

except   that  she  was  a  widow  and  had  a  grown  up  son, 

322 


ONE    TAVERN   AND   ANOTHER      323 

something  like  Pippin,  she  told  him,  who  had  given  her  a 
good  deal  of  trouble. 

He  often  wondered  what  had  made  him  bind  himself  to 
this  occupation  on  that  first  agitated  evening.  It  was 
partly  because  his  youth  had  inclined  him  to  submit  to 
what  was  expected  of  him,  partly  because  in  these  un- 
familiar surroundings  of  the  city  he  knew  not  what  further 
misfortune  might  befall  him  if  he  went  out  into  the  night 
without  a  penny  in  his  pocket.  Neither  reason  seemed 
strong  enough  to  him  now,  but  he  had  learnt  much  since 
his  initiation,  and  was  learning  more  every  day.  The 
learning  was  a  disagreeable  process,  but  there  was  some 
satisfaction  in  showing  endurance  of  a  life  he  hated,  and 
feeling  himself  growing  in  strength  and  resourcefulness 
all  the  time.  His  dislike  for  the  landlord  grew  steadily. 
There  was  nothing  in  this  mean,  greedy,  shifty  man  to  be 
respected.  Pippin  put  the  whole  of  his  energy  into  his 
work,  and  gave  his  employer  no  excuse  to  hector  him. 
It  was  a  duel  between  them.  The  landlord  looked  for 
faults,  but  Pippin  would  take  no  blame  from  him,  and 
presently  he  desisted,  and  changed  his  tone  to  one  of  unc- 
tuous familiarity ;  for  this  was  valuable  service  that  he 
was  getting,  and  he  wanted  to  keep  it.  But  Pippin 
would  have  none  of  his  cozening,  and  pressed  him  to  find 
another  helper  and  set  him  free,  which  he  always  promised 
to  do  and  never  did. 

Sometimes  in  a  moment  free  for  thought  Pippin's  mind 
would  go  back  to  the  happy  time  he  had  spent  in  the  cot- 
tage on  the  sunny  cliff  top,  where  every  face  he  saw  was 
the  face  of  a  friend,  where  there  was  hard  work  and  small 
pay  for  it,  but  it  was  work  done  under  the  free  sky,  and 
all  around  was  the  clean  air  of  the  fields  and  the  sea,  and 


324  PIPPIN 

the  nights  were  quiet,  with  deep  healthful  sleep  in  them. 
How  different  from  this  Life  of  the  city,  with  its  incessant 
noise  and  unrest,  with  dirt  everywhere  and  the  very  air 
tainted;  where  all  work  seemed  a  burden  to  those  whose 
lives  were  forced  to  it,  and  relief  from  toil  found  in  the 
hot  rank  atmosphere  of  this  drinking-shop,  and  talk  that 
might  at  any  moment  break  into  quarrelling,  and  quarrel- 
ling into  blows. 

Part  of  Pippin's  duty  was  to  be  on  the  watch  for  these 
disputes,  and  to  turn  into  the  street  any  one  Avhose  incli- 
nation towards  violence  showed  signs  of  mastering  him. 
If  he  had  known  this  he  would  not  have  committed  himself 
to  it,  but,  having  done  so,  he  found  it  not  the  most  odious 
of  his  tasks.  He  could  work  off  some  of  his  disgust  at 
the  baser  sort  of  people  among  whom  his  days  were  spent, 
and  whom  he  was  there  to  serve,  and  at  least  by  the 
strength  of  his  arm  prove  that  he  was  better  than  they 
were.  The  landlord  was  solicitous  for  the  good  name  of 
his  house  just  so  far  as  it  would  keep  him  out  of  trouble, 
but  was  too  cowardly  a  creature  to  be  able  to  keep  order 
among  the  rougher  spirits  who  frequented  it.  The  bar- 
maid with  her  shrill  tongue  did  more  than  he  did,  but  it 
was  Pippin  who  wrought  a  change  in  it  during  the  time 
he  was  there,  not  so  much  because  he  cared  about  its  good 
name  as  from  the  disgust  that  was  seething  in  him  at  all 
its  sordid  ways,  which  found  vent  in  violent  action  when- 
ever the  excuse  was  given  him. 

But  this  relief  became  less  as  his  prowess  became  known 
and  wrought  its  effect.  One  night  he  had  had  a  hearten- 
ing struggle  with  a  bully  who  was  always  tempting  him 
to  an  attack,  but  stopping  short  of  the  provocation  that 
would  have  brought  it  on.     This  time  he  had  given  it,  and 


ONE    TAVERN   AND   ANOTHER      325 

Pippin  had  turned  him  out  into  the  street,  and  had  a  set- 
to  with  him  when  he  got  him  there,  which  had  lasted  a  very 
short  time  but  given  him  a  good  conceit  of  himself.  It 
was  late  on  the  night  on  which  he  received  his  pay,  and 
his  momentary  self-satisfaction  more  than  the  landlord's 
sycophantic  praise  of  him  prevented  his  giving  the  notice 
that  would  have  set  him  free. 

But  the  next  morning  he  overheard  the  landlord  refuse 
the  application  of  a  man  who  wanted  the  place  that  he 
was  so  ready  to  give  up.  It  was  a  rough  refusal,  as 
this  man's  would  be,  when  anything  was  asked  of  him  that 
it  was  not  to  his  advantage  to  concede.  "You  can  clear 
out  of  this,"  it  ended,  "unless  you  want  to  be  kicked  out. 
There's  a  young  fellow  about  the  place  who  can  do  it  and 
enjoy  doing  it,  and  I'm  going  to  keep  him  at  it." 

The  man  went  out  grumbling.  The  landlord  came  into 
the  bar,  and  blinked  when  he  saw  Pippin  there.  Pippin 
hated  him  too  much  to  care  about  a  contest  of  words  with 
him.  "I'm  just  going  up  to  fetch  my  things,  and  then 
I'm  going  out  of  your  beastly  house,"  he  said. 

The  landlord  began  to  bluster,  but  he  left  him  at  it. 
He  began  again  when  Pippin  came  down,  but  he  pushed 
by  him  without  a  word.  He  went  to  the  yard  in  which 
Ben  lived  a  doleful  existence  during  the  long  hours  in 
which  his  master  was  working,  and  within  three  minutes  of 
the  time  that  he  had  discharged  himself  Pippin  was  in  the 
street,  a  free  man  once  more. 

It  was  a  dull  cold  morning,  more  cheerless  in  these  con- 
fined streets  than  the  roughest  weather  in  the  open  coun- 
try, But  for  Pippin,  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
entered  the  city,  the  air  seemed  fresh  and  bracing.  It 
was  that  time  of  the  morning  when  the  workers  of  this 


326  PIPPIN 

part  of  the  town  were  mostly  penned  up  between  walls, 
and  distribution  of  goods  was  not  yet  at  its  height.  The 
streets  were  not  so  full  as  at  other  times,  and  Pippin 
could  walk  along  the  broad  pavement  with  something  of 
the  same  step  with  which  he  had  set  out  on  one  of  his 
day's  marches  through  the  country.  He  felt  not  less 
exhilaration  than  on  those  happy  mornings,  and  as  for 
Ben,  his  delight  at  this  glorious  and  unexpected  resump- 
tion of  the  only  right  way  of  using  the  hours  of  the  day 
was  almost  too  much  for  him.  He  jumped  about  his 
master,  who  had  come  to  his  senses  at  last,  higher  than 
he  had  ever  jumped  before,  with  barks  of  uncontrolled 
rapture,  and  did  not  settle  down  to  the  close  dogging  of 
Pippin's  steps,  which  he  had  learnt  in  his  painful  experi- 
ence of  streets  to  be  the  only  way  not  to  lose  him  in  the 
crowd,  until  they  had  left  the  scene  of  their  tribulations  far 
behind  them.  By  that  time  he  had  accepted  the  change, 
and  put  the  past  out  of  his  mind,  which  is  the  happy 
faculty  of  dogs  and  other  animals,  more  fortunate  than 
men  in  being  able  to  take  the  good  as  it  comes,  and  for 
as  long  as  it  lasts,  with  no  shadow  thrown  upon  it  by  the 
evil. 

"How  altogether  wise  and  good  you  are,  dear  master, 
in  taking  up  that  bundle  of  yours  again,  which  unless  I 
am  much  mistaken  contains  something  for  both  of  us  to 
enjoy  under  a  tree  or  on  a  grassy  bank  when  the  time 
comes.  Hurrah!  hurrah!  hurrah!  I  do  want  you  to 
know  how  pleased  I  am  with  this  setting  out  again.  We'll 
never  go  back  to  that  horrible  place — no  more,  no  more, 
no  more.  But,  I  say,  can't  we  do  without  this  beastly 
cage  over  my  head?  I  can't  get  at  you  to  lick  your  face. 
You  wouldn't  like  to  wear  one  yourself,  you  know.     Oh, 


ONE    TAVERN   AND   ANOTHER      327 

very  well !  I  won't  grumble  at  it  until  we  get  clear  of  all 
these  tiresome  people;  then  you  can  take  it  off.  You 
know  best,  no  doubt.  Don't  worry  about  me.  I'm  as 
happy  as  a  lark,  and  ready  to  follow  you  anywhere. 
Lead  on!" 

Pippin  had  money  in  his  purse,  and  his  freedom.  But 
the  money  was  not  enough  to  keep  him  for  long,  and  the 
freedom  would  have  to  be  used  to  find  work  that  would 
earn  him  his  living  until  the  time  came  for  him  to  set  his 
face  homewards.  There  was  the  whole  dreary  winter  to 
get  through  before  that  time  came,  and  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  that  he  would  see  it  out  in  the  city.  He  had  been 
unfortunate  in  his  first  experience,  but  he  knew  that  he 
had  lighted  only  upon  the  unsavoury  fringe  of  it,  and 
it  still  spelt  romance  to  him,  though  no  longer  of  the 
golden  stuff  of  his  dreams.  His  home,  and  all  the  life  that 
he  had  led  there,  had  painted  itself  in  his  imagination  in 
ever  brighter  colours  during  his  late  imprisonment.  It  did 
not  seem  possible  that  he  would  ever  want  to  leave  it  again, 
when  he  once  got  back  to  its  happy  settled  freedom.  He 
was  sure  that  he  would  never  want  to  come  to  the  city 
again,  or  at  least  not  to  take  part  in  any  of  its  work,  or 
the  life  lived  by  its  workers.  But  there  was  still  some- 
thing to  be  gained  from  it,  if  it  was  only  the  delight  that 
would  come  to  him  when  he  had  got  through  the  months 
of  his  probation  and  could  take  the  road  homewards.  He 
would  not  seek  work  outside  the  city  until  the  time  came 
for  him  to  leave  it  for  good. 

There  had  been  times  in  which,  freed  from  his  distaste- 
ful work,  he  and  Ben  had  gone  exploring  away  from  the 
unlovely  quarter  in  which  he  lived.  There  was  open 
ground   within   reach,    almost   like   the   real    country,   in 


328  PIPPIN 

which  were  trees  and  grass  and  the  wet  mud  of  honest 
roads  instead  of  greasy  pavements.  But  he  had  gone 
more  often  to  the  heart  of  the  city,  and  Been  much  to 
interest  him. 

He  had  seen  the  great  buildings  that  were  familiar  to 
him  in  pictures;  the  palace  by  the  river  in  which  the  laws 
were  made  that  he  and  all  men  must  obey  for  the  peace- 
able ordering  of  the  realm,  and  from  which  even  so  small  a 
thing  as  the  muzzling  of  Ben  had  proceeded,  so  anxious 
were  the  grave  deliberators  for  the  safety  of  those  whose 
welfare  was  committed  to  their  charge;  the  great  church 
in  which  kings  and  other  illustrious  men  were  buried; 
famous  streets,  and  well-ordered  parks,  in  which  nature 
was  tamed  but  also  encouraged.  He  had  seen  a  troop 
of  soldiers  in  all  their  splendour  of  scarlet  and  gold  and 
steel,  and  admired  the  fine  horses  which  carried  them. 
This  had  been  a  chance  encounter,  but  it  had  greatly 
pleased  him.  And  he  had  wondered  at  the  houses  of  the 
rich,  the  miles  and  miles  of  them,  and  again  at  the  fine 
equipages  which  served  their  pleasure  or  convenience, 
though  he  had  been  told  that  the  high  nobility  were  for 
the  most  part  resident  on  their  country  estates  at  this 
season,  and  had  taken  their  horses  and  servants  with  them. 

He  had  been  told  this  in  a  little  tavern  which  he  had 
lighted  upon  in  a  huddle  of  narrow  streets  behind  a  great 
thoroughfare  of  stately  buildings.  The  little  streets  of 
little  shops  and  little  houses  wore  a  very  different  aspect 
from  the  sordid  byways  of  the  quarter  from  which  he  had 
come.  They  were  clean  and  neat  and  homely,  and  their 
air  was  one  of  staid  respectability,  like  the  back-regions 
of  some  great  house,  in  which  servants  live  in  sociable 
comfort,  but  must  keep  themselves  and  everything  about 


ONE    TAVERN    AND   ANOTHER      329 

them  tidy,  and  not  intrude  their  private  affairs  upon  their 
betters.  This  retiring  little  tavern  had  taken  Pippin's 
fancy,  because  it  was  not  unlike  a  country  inn,  and  as 
unlike  as  possible  to  the  flaunting  tavern  from  which  he 
had  escaped  for  an  hour  or  two.  So  he  had  gone  in  and 
asked  for  a  tankard  of  ale. 

The  ale  that  was  drawn  for  him  was  of  a  very  different 
quality  from  that  with  which  he  dealt  during  his  working 
hours.  One  sip  of  that  had  been  enough  for  him,  and  he 
had  bound  himself  to  touch  no  strong  liquors  in  that 
place  as  long  as  he  stayed  there,  except  in  the  way  of 
serving  them  to  others. 

This  was  the  real  nut-brown  nectar  of  the  country-side, 
with  a  reminder  of  fragrant  hops,  September  sunshine, 
and  warm-scented  oast-houses.  It  was  the  good  cheer  of 
men  who  had  done  their  work  in  the  fields  under  the  open 
sky,  and  could  moisten  their  tired  clay  in  congenial  com- 
pany, encouraged  by  it  to  an  enlivening  warmth  of  spirit, 
and  not  pushed  by  heady  vapours  to  a  mood  of  quarrel- 
someness and  noisy  self-assertion.  It  is  the  best  drink 
in  the  world  for  those  who  by  due  exercise  of  body, 
whether  of  work  or  of  play,  have  adapted  themselves  to 
its  consumption ;  and  in  this  matter  the  poor  man  has  the 
advantage  of  the  rich  man,  for  there  are  few  times  in 
which  his  capacity  is  not  equal  to  his  desire,  and  only  a 
lack  of  pence  prevents  his  departure  from  sobriety,  except 
on  occasions  that  it  would  be  churlish  to  bring  up  against 
him.  For  at  such  times  an  honest  man,  in  a  glow  of  good- 
will towards  his  fellow-creatures,  is  overcome  more  by 
the  wish  to  enjoy  a  condition  in  which  lack  of  pence  is  the 
least  of  evils  than  by  the  grave  sin  of  drunkenness.  Be- 
sides, this  transfusion  of  grain  and  fruit  and  sunshine  com- 


330  npriN 

mauds  a  price  far  below  its  merits,  and  your  rich  man  is 
apt  to  undervalue  things  that  cost  him  little.  In  choice 
of  food  and  drink  he  relies  more  upon  the  education  of  the 
palate  than  upon  the  natural  promptings  of  appetite,  and 
appetite  he  squanders  by  a  too  ready  subservience  to  it. 
For  you  must  master  appetite  and  not  let  it  master  you, 
if  you  would  keep  it  in  healthy  cheerful  action;  and  there 
arc  some  who  say  you  must  take  this  way  with  women  too, 
but  I  am  not  one  of  them,  and  at  any  rate  it  has  nothing 
to  do  with  what  we  are  talking  about. 

The  natural  potables  of  other  nations  are  manifestly 
inferior  to  this  delectable  strong  and  bitter  ale,  which  can 
be  drunk  in  its  perfection  in  only  one  country  in  the 
world,  and  that  a  small  one,  though  glorious,  for  this 
among  other  reasons.  There  is  a  beer  brewed  in  other 
countries  which  is  good  to  drink,  but  it  induces  fat  in 
place  of  brawn,  and  its  habitual  consumers  are  immoderate 
with  it.  They  swill  their  beer,  but  no  man  swills  strong 
ale;  it  is  too  precious  a  fluid.  A  long  and  deep  draught, 
with  a  subsequent  ecstatic  exhalation  of  the  breath  and  a 
smacking  of  the  lips,  is  a  different  matter,  and  nature's 
own  way  of  showing  gratitude  for  a  great  favour  re- 
ceived. 

The  fermented  juice  of  apples  is  the  common  drink  in 
those  fair  regions  where  grows  this  wholesome  fruit;  but 
it  is  lacking  in  substance,  and  tends  to  acidity,  of  the 
temper  as  well  as  of  the  bodily  organs.  There  is  less  of 
sustenance  in  it  than  of  provocation,  and  though  men 
who  choose  their  liquors  will  not  pass  it  by  altogether  it 
has  no  great  following  outside  the  vernacular. 

The  very  potent  spirit  drawn  from  malted  barley  or 
rye  grain,  if  mellowed  by  age,  is  a  comfortable  and  sapid 


ONE    TAVERN   AND   ANOTHER      331 

drink  for  men  of  mature  age  and  settled  character,  but 
makes  a  mock  of  others  who  meddle  with  it  beyond  moder- 
ation. In  the  chief  country  of  its  distillation,  a  deep 
sagacity  and  a  sense  of  election  elevates  those  whose 
native  potion  it  is  to  a  plane  upon  which  they  can  scorn 
its  perils ;  but  for  men  of  a  lighter  composition  it  is  no 
substitute  for  honest  ale,  and  they  will  get  small  good  of 
persisting  with  it. 

Wine,  pressed  from  the  grape,  in  the  sunny  countries 
in  which  these  ripen,  has  a  mellowing  enlivening  influence 
on  those  who  drink  it,  but  they  are  not  to  be  compared  for 
solidity  either  of  flesh  or  of  temper  to  those  who  drink 
good  ale  under  a  more  humid  sky. 

In  all  this  catalogue  of  fermented  liquors,  and  especially 
in  the  matter  of  wine,  I  am  not  concerned  with  special 
delicacies  of  production,  measured  off*  and  sold  in  glass 
bottles,  but  with  the  good  native  liquors  that  can  be  stored 
and  ripened  in  seasoned  wood,  which  has  some  affinity  with 
them.  And  of  all  of  them  the  homely  virtues  of  bitter  ale 
are  best  brought  out  if  it  is  kept  in  casks  of  wood  and 
drawn  from  them  for  immediate  ingestion.  These  are  the 
drinks  that  can  be  drunk  with  more  benefit  than  bane,  and 
are  not  the  monopoly  of  the  rich.  And  good  ale  is  the 
king  of  them  all,  and  the  most  fortifying. 

Pippin's  tankard  was  filled  from  a  cask  that  stood 
under  the  counter,  and  set  down  in  front  of  him  headed 
with  the  light  froth  that  told  of  life  still  animating  it; 
and  he  drank  and  was  satisfied. 

It  was  drawn  for  him  by  a  comfortable  looking  woman, 
neither  young  nor  old,  but  inclining  to  the  latter,  who 
then  returned  to  her  chair  beside  a  bright  fire  and  went  on 
with  her  knitting,  while  she  showed  that  she  would  not  be 


332  PIPPIN 

averse  to  a  little  conversation.  Pippin  was  the  only  cus- 
tomer, and  that  part  of  the  room  which  he  had  entered 
would  not  have  held  many  more.  The  part  in  which  the 
hostess  Bat  was  considerably  larger,  though  not  so  large 
as  to  take  away  from  the  cosiness  of  the  whole.  There  were 
chairs  and  a  table  in  a  corner  of  it,  as  if  for  favoured 
guests,  but  she  did  not  invite  Pippin  inside,  perhaps  be- 
cause of  Ben,  for  whom,  however,  she  had  a  word  of 
admiration. 

Of  course  she  wanted  to  know  where  both  of  them  had 
come  from,  and  Pippin  told  her  from  the  country]  and 
what  part  of  it,  but  not  how  long  it  was  since  he  had  left 
his  home,  or  what  he  had  been  doing  since.  He  would 
have  been  ashamed  to  tell  her  what  he  was  doing  at  that 
time,  and  fortunately  he  had  given  her  an  opening  which 
prevented  her  from  pressing  him  with  questions.  She  had 
been  to  the  country  in  which  his  home  lay,  to  a  great 
house  within  a  few  miles  of  it  which  he  knew  well,  and  the 
owners  of  it,  though  they  were  far  above  him  in  station 
and  his  knowledge  of  them  was  no  more  than  came  from 
the  friendly  intercourse  of  the  country-side  and  the  gossip 
that  centres  on  those  who  are  leaders  in  it.  The  hostess 
had  been  maid  to  a  lady  visiting  there,  and  remembered 
this  out  of  all  the  great  houses  at  which  she  had  attended 
her  mistress  because  she  had  first  met  her  husband  there, 
also  attendant  on  a  visitor. 

The  husband  came  in  presently.  He  was  a  dignified 
man,  rather  older  than  his  wife.  He  listened  courteously 
to  her  reference  to  Pippin,  and  with  a  shrewd  look  at  him 
and  the  dog  said  that  he  remembered  those  parts  as  well 
stocked  with  game,  and  the  gentleman  on  whom  he  had 
been  in  attendance  and  for  whom  he  had  loaded  at  the  time 


ONE    TAVERN    AND   ANOTHER      333 

they  were  speaking  of  had  done  some  very  pretty  shooting 
there. 

It  would  have  been  balm  to  Pippin  to  talk  about  country 
sport,  whether  on  a  horse  or  with  a  gun;  but  hard  upon 
the  heels  of  the  host  there  came  into  the  bar  a  portly 
senior  in  the  dress  of  a  coachman,  and  immediately  after 
him  another  who  could  only  have  been  a  butler,  unless  he 
were  a  judge  or  a  bishop,  which  would  have  been  unlikely. 
These  entered  at  once  the  parlour  behind  the  bar,  and 
were  greeted  by  host  and  hostess  as  if  their  arrival  were 
expected  and  welcomed.  They  were  followed  by  two  other 
men,  evidently  of  the  higher  ranks  of  domestic  service,  and 
in  the  stir  of  greeting  and  attendance  upon  their  require- 
ments, Pippin  drained  his  tankard  and  went  out,  lifting 
his  cap  to  the  hostess,  who  nodded  to  him  with  a  smile, 
and  called  to  him  to  come  and  see  her  again  when  she 
was  less  busy. 

It  was  to  this  tavern,  so  different  in  all  respects  from 
the  one  he  had  left,  and  especially  in  its  quiet  homeliness, 
that  Pippin  was  now  directing  his  steps.  It  was  the 
only  place  in  all  the  great  city  in  which  he  had  been  for  a 
few  minutes  in  contact  with  self-respecting  kindly  folk. 
Perhaps  they  would  take  him  in  there,  or,  if  not,  he  was 
sure  that  the  hostess  would  tell  him  where  to  find  a  lodg- 
ing. Then  he  would  at  once  set  about  finding  work,  and 
he  had  ideas  about  that  too.  But  the  first  thing  was  to 
secure  his  resting-place. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

PIPPIN    LOOKS     I  OK    WORK    AND    FINDS    IT 

Pippin  was  in  luck  on  this  his  second  encounter  with  cir- 
cumstance. The  hostess,  whose  name  was  Mrs.  Blunt,  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  him,  as  appeared  when  he  presented  him- 
self before  her,  had  hoped  that  he  would  come  again,  and 
was  pleased  to  see  him  now  that  he  had  come.  As  for 
letting  him  a  room,  the  house  was  too  small  for  them  to 
make  a  practice  of  that,  but  there  was  a  little  room  which 
they  seldom  used,  and  if  her  husband  approved  he  should 
have  it,  and  should  take  his  meal  with  them  too.  They  were 
two  people  alone  together,  and  although  their  walk  in  life 
provided  them  with  no  lack  of  agreeable  company,  their 
friends  were  mostly  of  a  ripe  age,  and  they  would  not  be 
sorry  to  have  somebody  rather  younger  about  them  for  a 
time.  How  long  did  Pippin  propose  to  stay  in  the  city? 
She  supposed  he  had  come  to  see  the  sights,  and  she  and 
her  husband  might  perhaps  put  him  in  the  way  of  seeing 
some  things  that  it  was  not  open  for  everybody  to  see. 
She  took  it  that  the  money  he  had  to  spend  was  not 
without  limit,  but  she  promised  him  that  her  charges 
would  be  moderate,  and  if  he  spent  it  quickly  it  would  be 
his  fault  and  not  hers. 

Pippin  told  her  that  he  had  some  money,  but  must  find 
regular  employment,  for  that  had  been  the  bargain  with 
his  father  when  he  had  allowed  him  to  leave  his  home  for  a 
year  to  see  the  world.  Well,  she  said,  that  was  not  a  bad 
way  of  treating  a  young  man.      It  kept  him  out  of  mis- 


PIPPIN    LOOKS    FOR   WORK  335 

chief,  to  which  young  men  with  leisure  and  money  to  spend 
were  very  prone ;  and  it  gave  them  resource  and  confidence 
in  themselves.  She  didn't  know  what  sort  of  work  Pippin 
had  it  in  his  mind  to  do.  She  supposed  that  a  young  man 
brought  up  in  the  kind  of  home  he  had  told  her  was  his 
would  not  care  about  engaging  himself  in  a  public-house. 
Otherwise  he  might  have  had  employment  there,  for  she 
and  her  husband  and  a  maid  did  most  of  what  there  was  to 
do  between  them,  and  they  had  often  talked  about  getting 
in  a  young  man  to  help,  but  put  it  off  because  it  was  not 
easy  to  find  one  of  respectability  and  good  manners. 

So  here  was  work  offered  to  him  without  his  having  to 
seek  it,  and  little  the  good  woman  who  offered  it  apolo- 
getically guessed  the  work  he  had  just  left,  or  the  sur- 
roundings, so  different  from  hers,  in  which  it  had  been 
done.  If  she  had  had  any  idea  of  it  she  could  only  have 
been  surprised,  and  perhaps  a  little  offended,  at  Pippin's 
passing  it  by.  But  his  mind  revolted  at  the  idea  of  binding 
himself  to  the  serving  of  liquors,  even  though  it  were  un- 
accompanied by  any  grossness.  She  was  right  in  doubt- 
ing whether  it  was  work  that  one  brought  up  as  he  had 
been  would  care  to  undertake.  He  had  fallen  upon  it  by 
chance,  and  would  never  have  thought  of  it  otherwise. 
He  was  too  relieved  at  having  got  back  upon  his  own 
proper  level  to  be  willing  to  step  down  from  it  again. 

"I  will  willingly  give  you  all  the  help  I  can,"  he  said, 
"for  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  taking  me  in  in  this  kind 
way.  But  I  want  to  work  out  of  doors,  and  among  horses 
if  I  can." 

She  accepted  his  refusal  as  natural;  but  afterwards  he 
made  good  his  offer  of  helping  her  in  his  spare  time, 
and  she  frequently  expressed  surprise  at  his  adroitness ; 


336  P I  P  P  I  N 

for  he  seemed  to  know  exactly  what  to  do  without  being 
told.  When  the  time  approached  some  months  later  for 
him  to  leave  her  he  made  a  clean  breast  of  it,  and  they 
laughed  together  over  the  small  deception  he  had  prac- 
tised upon  her.  By  that  time  the  sting  of  his  memories 
had  been  drawn,  and  she  had  become  so  fond  of  him 
that  she  could  only  sigh  and  click  her  tongue  at  the 
thought  of  his  having  gone  through  so  dreadful  an  ex- 
perience. It  was  only  when  he  told  her  that  she  had 
more  than  made  it  up  to  him  that  she  allowed  herself 
to  be  diverted  from  her  commiseration  and  laughed  over 
his  tale. 

Her  husband  made  no  objection  to  the  arrangement 
she  had  come  to  with  Pippin.  He  seemed  to  be  a  little 
doubtful  about  it,  having  the  suspicion  of  his  years  of 
the  ways  of  young  men  when  brought  into  contact  with 
the  settled  habits  of  their  seniors.  But  Pippin  divined 
that  he  would  only  have  to  be  watchful  of  his  crotchets, 
and  he  would  soon  get  used  to  having  him  about  the 
place,  and  perhaps  come  to  like  it. 

This  came  about  in  a  short  time.  Mr.  Blunt  was  a 
man  of  some  stiffness  and  reserve  of  manner,  encouraged 
in  him,  no  doubt,  by  his  position  in  life,  in  which  he  had 
to  keep  intact  his  own  dignity  while  waiting  on  the  will 
of  others.  For  he  was  still  in  service,  though  not  tied 
to  it  throughout  the  year.  He  was  butler  to  a  dowager 
lady,  at  such  times  as  she  settled  herself  in  town,  and 
though  he  often  talked  of  retiring  he  was  not  likely  to 
do  so  as  long  as  she  remained  alive  and  in  need  of  his 
services. 

Pippin  lost  no  time  in  looking  for  the  work  he  wanted. 
He  had  not  told  Mrs.  Blunt  exactly  what  it  was  he  had 


PIPPIN   LOOKS   FOR   WORK  337 

in  his  mind,  but  he  was  full  of  it,  as  is  the  way  of  a 
young  man  with  an  idea  to  be  put  into  practice. 

This  was  a  time  some  years  before  horse-drawn  traffic 
gave  place  to  that  actuated  by  machinery.  The  public 
vehicles  of  the  city  were  lumbering  omnibuses,  cabs  with 
four  wheels  and  cabs  with  two.  It  is  hard  to  believe 
that  there  are  people,  and  no  longer  in  childhood,  who 
have  never  seen  the  streets  full  of  horses,  and  free  from 
those  gliding  petrol-driven  carriages,  which  take  you 
where  you  want  to  go  at  so  fast  a  pace  that  you  have 
no  time  to  think  whether  it  is  worth  while  going  there, 
and  in  such  a  hurry.  And  out  of  all  the  fine  sights  that 
they  have  missed  in  their  lives,  one  most  to  be  regretted 
on  their  behalf  is  that  of  the  hansom  cabs,  which  made 
such  a  brave  show  in  the  streets  and  were  so  pleasant  to 
ride  in,  if  the  horse  was  a  good  one  and  the  driver  neither 
too  fearful  nor  too  reckless.  It  is  odd,  I  say,  that  so 
late  in  the  era  of  machinery  these  spanking  cabs  should 
have  been  accepted  as  the  last  word  of  speed  in  street 
traffic,  when  for  longer  distances  the  stage  coaches  had 
been  ousted  by  the  railroad  two  generations  before.  The 
one  is  now  as  much  a  thing  of  the  past  as  the  other,  but 
at  this  time  the  hansoms  and  the  four-wheelers  and  the 
horse-drawn  omnibuses  still  held  the  streets,  and  it  was 
a  hansom  that  Pippin  had  the  ambition  of  driving. 

He  had  greatly  admired  to  see  them  swinging  along 
on  their  high  wheels,  with  their  metal  and  varnish  shining, 
the  likely-looking  horses  that  were  often  between  their 
shafts,  and  the  cabby  seated  aloft  on  his  perilous  seat, 
looking  as  if  he  thoroughly  enjoyed  that  swaying  emi- 
nence. There  were  many  degrees  of  pulchritude  in  these 
hansom  cabbies,  as  there  were  in  the  cabs  they  rode  and 


338  P I  P  T  I N 

the  horses  they  drove.  The  high  type  was  a  man  of  middle 
age,  with  a  weathered  face  and  a  knowing  look  of  good 
humour.  He  wore  a  shining  top-hat  with  a  rakish  air, 
a  thick  fawn-coloured  coat  with  enormous  white  hut  tons, 
dog-skin  gloves,  and  very  often  a  button-hole.  Unlike 
the  lilies,  he  took  thought  of  his  appearance,  and  indeed 
he  wore  a  handsome  aspect,  and  it  was  an  honour  to  be 
driven  by  him,  for  he  was  as  well-groomed  as  any  rich 
man's  coachman,  with  an  added  spice  of  dash  and  mettle 
about  him.  The  inferior  type  of  cabby,  especially  those 
who  drove  the  four-wheelers — though  some  of  these  were 
knowledgeable  horsey  men — might  know  no  more  about  the 
driving  of  a  horse  than  that  if  you  pulled  one  rein  he 
went  one  way  and  if  you  pulled  the  other  he  went  another, 
and  if  you  pulled  both  at  the  same  time  he  stopped  until 
you  hit  him  with  the  whip,  when  he  went  on  again.  But 
the  archetype  did  know  about  horses ;  his  knowledge  was 
proclaimed  to  all  who  could  recognize  the  masters  of 
that  recondite  science.  He  had  affinity  with  all  men  who 
wore  tight  gaiters  on  thin  shanks  slightly  bowed,  and 
hard  hats  atilt,  sucked  straws,  and  denied  the  animal  of 
their  devotion  the  initial  letter  of  his  name.  His  knowl- 
edge of  individual  horses  went  far  beyond  those  he  had 
seen.  Of  the  equine  aristocracy  he  knew  the  parentage 
for  generations  back,  and  the  temper  and  turn  of  speed 
of  those  in  the  eye  of  his  world,  and  was  prepared  to 
back  his  knowledge  with  silver  and  sometimes  gold  against 
all  who  would  gainsay  it.  He  would  take  you  anywhere 
you  pleased  for  a  sum  in  payment,  and  give  you  a  jovial 
word  of  thanks  for  anything  extra,  unlike  the  weedy 
mechanics  who  have  succeeded  him,  and  pocket  your  coin 
in  a   sour  and   suspicious  silence.     But  he  was   in  most 


PIPPIN    LOOKS    FOR    WORK  339 

accord  with  you  when  you  hired  him  to  take  you  out  of 
the  town  to  one  of  the  places  where  horses  raced  together. 
Then  he  was  in  his  right  element.  Pleasure  and  business 
went  most  lovingly  hand  in  hand.  He  was  your  generous 
friend  from  the  moment  you  set  out  until  you  parted 
with  him  on  your  return.  All  his  knowledge  was  at  your 
service.  Follow  it,  and  your  fortune  was  made,  if  you 
had  the  pluck  to  take  no  more  than  a  reasonable  risk. 
He  would  make  no  bargain  with  you,  knowing  that  he 
would  share  in  your  good  fortune  if  it  came  about.  If 
it  did  not,  and  you  returned  in  dejection,  he  would  en- 
courage you  with  the  certainty  of  profit  on  the  next 
occasion ;  and  in  either  case,  if  you  were  a  person 
worthy  of  his  trust  in  you,  you  would  part  with  mutual 
esteem. 

He  was  a  brave  fellow,  and  he  exists  no  longer ;  but 
his  ghost  may  sometimes  be  encountered  at  the  wheel  of 
a  throbbing  engine.  Always  take  a  motor-cab  driven  by 
an  old  man  rather  than  a  young  one.  Ten  to  one  he  has 
learnt  manners  in  his  youth  and  prime.  For  to  drive 
and  ride  horses  is  a  better  schooling  than  to  drive  small 
engines.  Treat  him  generously,  remembering  that  for  him 
the  times  are  evil,  however  brave  a  face  he  may  put  upon 
them.  He  moves  faster  than  ever  he  did,  but  the  glory 
of  movement  has  departed.  Soon  he  will  go  to  join  the 
company  of  those  who  were  long  since  dispossessed  of 
the  road,  and  are  now  only  a  legend,  as  he  will  be  in  a 
few  more  years  at  most. 

It  was  to  this  company  then  that  Pippin  aspired  to 
belong:  no  very  high  aspiration  perhaps,  but  not  to  be 
condemned  in  a  very  young  man  whose  love  for  horses 
was  in  his  bones  and  his  knowledge  of  them  beyond  his 


340  r  I  P  P  I  N 

years.  He  was  cut  off  from  the  pursuits  natural  to  his 
state,  and  if  he  had  to  earn  his  bread  for  a  time  these 
were  the  special  wares  he  had  to  market.  Besides,  he 
wanted  to  see  the  town,  and  his  opportunities  would  be 
far  less  if  he  were  to  confine  his  work  between  walls. 
And  he  was  taken — this  was  a  very  youthful  trait  in  him 
— with  that  dashing  livery  of  shiny  hat,  brown  gloves, 
and  saucer-buttoned  coat.  Give  him  one  of  those  smart 
new  cabs,  as  well-appointed  as  any  private  carriage,  and 
a  horse  with  some  blood  in  him,  and  he  saw  himself  in  a 
position  of  credit  and  lustre,  in  a  calling  of  which  no 
man  in  the  fraternity  of  horse-lovers  need  feel  ashamed. 

But  how  to  get  started  in  that  career ! 

He  went  to  a  cab-rank  in  a  square  of  large  houses, 
with  trees  and  grass  behind  railings  in  the  middle  of  it. 
The  cabmen  were  mostly  sitting  in  the  shelter  provided 
for  them,  but  those  at  the  head  of  the  rank  whose  turn 
was  about  to  come  were  on  the  pavement,  talking  and 
joking  with  one  another.  Ben  went  up  and  nosed  them 
in  a  friendly  way,  as  if  he  recognized  in  them  men  not 
entirely  subdued  to  the  unnatural  bent  of  pavement- 
walkers,  and  so  provided  Pippin  with  an  introduction.  He 
was  soon  invigorating  himself  with  talk  of  horse  and  dog, 
such  as  he  had  not  enjoyed  for  weeks  past.  They  had 
talked  horse  in  the  bar  of  the  "King  William,"  but  that 
was  a  different  kind  of  talk,  and  those  who  were  readiest 
at  it  looked  upon  the  noblest  of  animals  only  as  a  counter 
in  their  business  of  gambling. 

Pippin  kept  his  eyes  and  his  ears  open,  as  the  business 
in  which  these  men  were  engaged  proceeded.  A  whistle 
would  sound  from  the  porch  of  one  of  the  houses  round 
the  square,  or  a  pedestrian  would  hold  up  his   stick  or 


PIPPIN   LOOKS    FOR    WORK  341 

umbrella  on  the  pavement.  The  man  whose  cab  was  at 
the  head  of  the  rank  would  swing  himself  up  to  his  high 
seat  and  drive  off.  The  whole  rank  would  move  up  one. 
Cabs  would  drive  up  and  take  their  places  at  the  end 
of  the  line,  and  their  drivers  would  climb  down,  swing 
their  arms  for  warmth,  unbend  their  legs,  and  join  their 
fellows.  The  horses  were  fed  from  nosebags,  and  some- 
times a  rug  was  thrown  over  their  quarters.  There  was 
a  constant  adjournment  of  cabmen,  two  or  three  together, 
to  a  tavern  just  round  the  corner,  hiding  itself  modestly 
among  its  stately  neighbours  and  keeping  quiet  about 
the  business  carried  on  in  it.  By  and  by  the  retirements 
for  liquid  refreshment  lengthened  themselves  into  sittings 
for  more  solid  fare.  Meals  were  served,  mostly  to  the 
cabmen,  in  this  tavern,  and  Pippin  ate  his  dinner  there, 
in  company  which  had  accepted  him  as  a  youth  of  parts 
and  of  the  right  kind  of  education. 

It  was  then  that  he  broached  his  desire  to  join  it  for 
a  time,  and  his  hopes  and  expectations  were  immediately 
dashed.  It  was  not  only  that  there  were  more  men  in 
search  of  this  kind  of  employment  than  there  was  room 
for,  nor  that  a  close  knowledge  of  all  the  quarters  of  the 
town  would  have  to  be  shown  and  proved  before  authority. 
He  might  have  got  over  the  one  obstacle  by  persistent 
application  and  the  other  by  a  diligent  study  of  maps 
and  books.  It  was  his  youth  that  barred  him.  Was 
he  prepared  to  swear  that  he  was  twenty-one  years  of 
age?  Nobody  would  believe  him,  for  he  was  two  years 
short  of  it,  and  looked  not  a  day  older  than  he  was. 
"They  don't  take  on  children  for  this  job,"  was  the 
verdict  of  one  of  the  less  amiable  of  his  new  acquaintances. 
Others   laughed   at  him,  more  kindly,   and   said    that  he 


342  PIPPIN 

would  grow  up  in  time,  and  drive  a  cab  with  the  best 
of  them. 

It  was  a  very  keen  disappointment,  but  there  was  no 
getting  over  it.  Later  in  the  afternoon  he  went  back 
to  what  was  now  his  home,  and  confided  it  to  Mrs.  Blunt. 
It  was  a  consolation  to  have  somebody  to  go  to  who 
would  take  an  interest  in  his  hopes  and  disappointments. 

Mrs.  Blunt  was  rather  shocked  that  he  should  have 
thought  of  such  a  thing.  "They're  a  rough  lot,"  she 
said,  "drinking  and  swearing  and  betting.  Some  of  them 
are  gentlemen,  who  have  come  down  in  the  world,  and 
they  are  the  worst  of  any.  We  don't  encourage  them 
to  come  here,  and  I  am  glad  we  are  not  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  a  cab-rank,  or  we  should  have  to  serve  them 
whether  we  wanted  to  or  no.  If  it  is  horses  you  want 
to  have  to  do  with,  why  not  try  to  get  into  a  private 
stable?  It's  very  likely  my  husband  could  help  you  there, 
or  Mr.  Grant,  who  drives  her  ladyship.  There's  nothing 
like  respectable  private  service  for  a  young  man  who  has 
his  living  to  make,  or  for  a  young  woman  either.  You 
live  well,  and  wear  good  clothes,  and  there's  consideration 
shown  you  if  }'ou're  willing,  and  bear  yourself  respectful; 
if  you  get  among  the  right  sort,  that  is ;  for  the  people 
that  have  risen  themselves,  sometimes  from  something  no 
better  than  their  own  servants,  often  don't  treat  them  so 
well  as  those  that  have  been  used  to  being  served  all  their 
lives." 

"I  shouldn't  like  that,"  said  Pippin  rather  shortly,  and 
Mrs.  Blunt  accepted  his  rejection  of  her  proposal  with- 
out offence.  It  is  a  curious  trait  in  the  better  class  of 
servants  that  while  they  prove  by  their  own  dignity  and 
self-respect  that  there  is  nothing  derogatory  in  their  call- 


PIPPIN    LOOKS    FOR    WORK  343 

ing,  they  will  acquiesce  in  the  disesteem  of  it  by  others. 
Mrs.  Blunt  did  not  count  Pippin  higher  in  degree  than 
herself  or  her  husband,  but  he  was  the  son  of  a  man 
who  lived  in  his  own  house  and  farmed  his  own  land. 
He  might  serve  others,  as  most  of  us  must,  but  it  did 
not  surprise  her  that  he  shrank  from  putting  on  a  livery 
and  subordinating  himself  in  a  special  way  to  his  em- 
ployers. 

"Well,'*  she  said,  "you  would  be  comfortable  enough 
in  good  service,  but  I  suppose  comfort  isn't  everything, 
and  all  of  us  like  our  freedom,  especially  when  we  are 
young.  If  it  is  work  with  horses  that  you  must  have, 
why  not  try  at  a  riding-master's  ?  You  would  give  lessons 
to  young  ladies  and  such-like,  and  have  your  fill  of  riding, 
and  on  good  horses  too." 

Pippin  thought  he  would  like  this  occupation,  and 
Mr.  Blunt's  friend,  the  coachman,  introduced  him  to  a 
riding-master,  who,  he  thought,  was  looking  about  for 
somebody  who  would  take  on  that  work. 

So  he  was.  But  here  Pippin's  youth  again  stood  in  his 
way.  The  riding-master  said  he  should  have  liked  to 
oblige  his  friend  the  coachman,  and  no  doubt  Pippin 
was  a  good  man  on  a  horse  and  wouldn't  rattle  them 
to  pieces  like  some  he  could  tell  of.  But  his  business 
lay  chiefly  among  the  highest  class  of  young  ladies' 
schools,  and  he  had  to  be  precious  particular  what  kind 
of  man  he  sent  out  with  them.  "They'd  never  stand  a 
gay  young  spark  like  you,"  he  said.  "Too  dangerous 
for  the  susceptible  'earts  of  the  young  ladies.  I  should 
lose  most  of  my  custom,  and  then  I  should  be  out  of  a 
job  as  well  as  you." 

Pippin  tried  here  and  tried  there,  and  all  the  respect- 


:Ui  PIPPIN 

able  gentlemen  who  foregathered  at  the  tavern  and  made 
something  of  a  favourite  of  him  took  an  interest  in  his 
search  for  work,  and  were  fertile  in  suggestion  hut  helped 
him  to  nothing  definite.  At  last  the  old  coachman  again 
said  that  lie  knew  somebody  who  owed  him  a  turn.  He 
could  give  Pippin  a  job  if  he  wanted  to,  and  it  would 
be  just  the  very  thing  for  him.  He  would  go  and  see 
him  the  next  morning.  No,  he  would  go  that  very  eve- 
ning, before  he  drove  her  ladyship  out  to  dinner.  He 
would  go  that  very  moment. 

He  did  not  disclose  what  the  very  thing  for  him  was, 
and  Pippin  had  some  doubts  about  it  until  lie  came  in  the 
next  morning  and  said  with  great  good  humour  that  he 
had  settled  it.  His  friend  was  at  the  head  of  the  dis- 
tributing department  of  a  large  retail  store,  or  rather 
of  the  men  and  the  carts  and  the  horses  who  carried 
out  the  work  of  distribution.  He  had  promised  to  give 
Pippin  a  trial,  on  the  coachman's  recommendation.  He 
would  have  to  work  in  the  stable  first  of  all,  but  it 
wouldn't  be  long  before  he  had  a  cart  to  drive.  The  busy 
season  was  coming,  and  they  would  soon  be  putting  on 
more  carts  and  taking  on  extra  men.  Pippin  would  come 
in  just  at  the  right  time,  and  would  get  one  of  the  driving 
jobs  as  soon  as  anybody;  and  though  some  of  the  extra 
help  would  not  be  wanted  after  Christmas,  if  Pippin  made 
good  at  the  job  he  would  be  kept  on. 

So  there  he  was  at  last,  with  settled  work  for  as  long 
as  he  liked  to  keep  it.  It  was  not  exactly  what  he  would 
have  preferred,  but  it  was  not  far  off  it,  and  he  had  learnt 
by  now  that  regular  work  was  not  the  easiest  thing  to 
get   in  the  city. 

His  youth,  which  the  coachman  had  omitted  to  men- 


PIPPIN    LOOKS    FOR    WORK  345 

tion,  nearly  proved  his  undoing  again.  He  was  told  that 
he  could  have  work  in  the  stable,  but  it  was  out  of  the 
question  to  give  him  a  cart  to  drive.  He  did  not  tell 
the  coachman  this.  He  wanted  a  chance  to  prove  himself, 
and  thought  that  in  time  he  would  get  a  cart  to  drive, 
however  much  it  might  seem  out  of  the  question  now. 

It  was  exhilarating  to  get  to  work  in  these  new  sur- 
roundings, especially  as  the  work  had  to  do  with  horses, 
which  are  much  the  same  in  a  town  as  in  a  country  stable. 
And  this  was  a  very  up-to-date  and  well-kept  stable. 
The  head  of  it  was  a  martinet,  and  no  sloth  or  careless- 
ness escaped  his  notice.  He  kept  a  sharp  eye  on  Pippin, 
but  found  nothing  to  blame  in  him.  He  did  his  work 
as  if  he  enjoyed  it,  and  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  knew 
how  to  do  it.  Presently  the  overseer  relaxed  towards 
him.  He  was  worth  more  than  the  ordinary  stable-hand, 
who  often  had  no  skill  with  horses  at  all,  and  wanted 
constant  watching.  This  man  loved  horses  himself,  and 
was  always  in  and  out  of  the  stable,  though  the  care  of 
them  devolved  not  now  upon  him  but  upon  the  head  stable- 
man. He  had  filled  this  position  before  he  had  been 
promoted.  He  would  talk  to  Pippin  in  the  intervals 
between  the  rushes  of  work,  and  their  talk  was  mostly 
of  horse,  but  also  of  country  life  in  general,  to  which 
he  had  been  brought  up,  and  was  inclined  to  regret  that 
he  had  ever  left.  "Though  I'm  doing  better  here  than  I 
might  have  done  if  I'd  stayed  where  I  was,"  he  said ;  "and 
there's  a  something  about  town  life  that  gets  hold  of 
you." 

When  he  thought  he  could  safely  do  so  without  risking 
a  rebuff,  Pippin  steered  the  talk  from  horse  to  dog,  with 
the  result  that  Ben  was  brought  to  the  stable  for  inspec- 


34G  PIPPIN 

tion,  and  comported  himself  so  correctly  that  he  was 
allowed  to  come  regularly  thereafter,  and  spent  his  days 
with  his  master  much  to  the  increase  of  his  happiness. 

It  was  not  long  before  Pippin  got  his  cart  to  drive. 
"I  trust  3rou,"  said  the  overseer,  now  his  friend,  "not  to 
bring  it  down  on  me.  I  know  you'll  be  all  right  with  the 
'orses,  and  I've  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  there.  But  if 
you  was  to  play  any  pranks  while  you  was  out  I  should 
get  into  trouble  for  putting  a  boy  on  to  a  man's  job. 
Drive  careful  on  these  slippery  streets;  they're  not  what 
you're  accustomed  to.  And  don't  get  talking  with  the 
maids.  They'll  be  wanting  to  give  you.  more  than  a  'thank 
you,'  and  'why  was  you  so  late?'  But  leave  all  that  for 
after  hours.  Speak  'em  pleasant,  and  no  harm  in  a 
'meet  you  after  dark  by  the  old  town  pump.'  But  keep 
it  to  that,  and  don't  stay  to  talk  while  you're  delivering." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

PIPPIN    SEES    IT    THROUGH 

Pippin  enjoyed  his  work  during  the  first  weeks.  He  had 
good  horses  to  drive,  and  there  was  some  interest  in  driving 
in  those  crowded  streets,  also  in  finding  his  way  about  the 
endless  labyrinth  of  them.  He  had  to  deliver  parcels, 
mostly  to  private  houses,  and  there  was  variety,  both  in 
the  houses  and  in  the  manner  of  his  reception.  He  had  a 
regular  quarter  to  cover,  and  by  and  by  he  began  to  know 
certain  of  the  houses,  in  some  of  which  his  advent  caused 
a  slight  flutter,  as  his  patron  had  foreseen.  He  was 
different  from  the  ordinary  run  of  the  men  who  did  the 
work  that  he  was  doing,  and  Ben,  who  always  accom- 
panied him,  became  known  and  also  aroused  interest.  It 
was  not  only  the  maids,  who  usually  took  in  his  parcels, 
who  would  have  liked  a  few  minutes  gossip  with  him,  but 
some  of  the  mistresses  too. 

There  was  one  house  at  which  he  called  frequently 
where  the  children  were  on  the  lookout  for  him,  and 
would  come  tumbling- out  to  make  a  fuss  of  Ben,  who  had 
transformed  himself  from  a  country  into  a  town  dog, 
would  run  half  under  the  cart  as  cleverly  as  any  trained 
Dalmatian,  and  made  no  more  of  the  dangers  of  the 
streets  than  if  they  had  been  country  lanes  with  but  rare 
traffic  on  them.  Pippin  would  willingly  have  tarried  for 
a  word  with  these  children,  for  there  had  been  a  lack  of 
contact  with  youth  in  his  life  for  some  time  past,   and 

he  spent  his  days  with  people  much  older  than  himself. 

347 


348  PIPPIN 

But  at  his  first  driving  round,  with  Christmas  fast  ap- 
proaching, there  was  such  a  press  that  he  could  not  afford 
to  lose  a  minute  anywhere,  and  indeed  he  worked  for  much 
longer  hours  than  the  normal,  but  received  extra  pay  for 
the  extra  work. 

After  he  had  been  driving  for  about  a  fortnight,  and 
felt  himself  an  established  part  of  the  machine,  the  over- 
seer accosted  him  with  a  grin  and  said:  "I've  been  hauled 
over  the  coals  about  you.  What  was  I  thinking  of  to  put 
a  kid  of  your  age  on  to  a  responsible  job  like  this?  And 
to  trust  you  with  the  best  'orses,  and  a  valuable  dawg!" 
He  seemed  to  be  in  a  particular  good  humour,  and 
Pippin  gathered  that  the  rebuke  had  not  been  serious,  but 
was  a  little  alarmed  all  the  same. 

"Won't  stop  a  moment  to  make  yourself  agreeable  to 
the  young  ladies,  eh?  WHiere  was  you  brought  up? 
Oughter  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  you  ought." 

Then  Pippin  heard  that  the  father  of  the  children  who 
had  wanted  to  talk  to  him  and  Ben  was  a  high  official  of 
the  Stores,  and  had  been  making  enquiries  about  him. 
How  he  had  blessed  himself  for  having  resisted  the  tempta- 
tion to  linger,  which  he  might  well  have  done  in  a  time  of 
less  pressure.  If  he  had  he  would  certainly  have  been 
dismissed,  not  so  much  for  that  fault  as  for  the  fault  of 
his  youth. 

"You're  a  valuable  servant  to  the  Company,"  said  his 
friend.  "An  eye  is  going  to  be  kept  on  you.  You'll  be 
put  in  my  place,  I  shouldn't  wonder,  when  you  grow  up. 
But  it  was  wrong  of  me  to  give  you  the  job  all  the  same. 
I'm  forgiven  this  time,  but  I'm  not  to  do  such  a  thing 
again." 

Pippin  had  an  interview  with  the  official,  who  handed 


PIPPIN    SEES   IT    THROUGH         349 

out  certain  special  Christmas  boxes  himself.  He  was  a 
stiff-mannered  short-spoken  man.  He  gave  Pippin  a  pres- 
ent of  money,  handsome  enough  considering  the  short 
time  he  had  been  in  the  employ  of  the  Company,  and  said 
he  would  not  have  received  one  at  all  in  the  ordinary  way. 
Then  he  asked  him  a  few  questions  about  himself,  and 
offered  him  a  place  in  his  private  stable,  at  an  increase  of 
wages.  Pippin  began  to  explain  that  he  was  going  back 
to  his  home  in  a  few  months,  but  he  cut  him  short.  Did  he 
want  the  place  or  didn't  he?  Pippin  said  that  he  did  not, 
and  was  curtly  dismissed.  No  further  marks  of  favour 
were  shown  him,  but  he  was  kept  on  in  his  place,  which  was 
all  he  wanted.  There  seemed  to  be  pitfalls  everywhere  for 
a  young  man  seeking  to  earn  his  living  in  the  city.  He 
was  glad  to  have  escaped  them  so  far  in  this  employment, 
though  it  had  been  as  much  by  good  fortune  as  by  his 
own  efforts ;  but  he  was  careful  afterwards  to  keep  his 
duties  and  his  inclinations  separate.  The  official's  family 
went  away  before  Christmas,  and  afterwards  he  served 
another  district,  and  did  not  see  them  again.  His  en- 
counter with  them  was  the  nearest  he  came  to  making  any 
friends  upon  his  rounds. 

The  hard  work  immediately  preceding  Christmas,  which 
had  risen  in  a  crescendo  to  a  terrific  burst  of  activity  up 
to  the  very  last  day,  was  succeeded  by  a  lull  so  complete 
that  Pippin  could  hardly  believe  he  was  living  in  the  same 
world. 

On  Christmas  Day  he  longed  for  his  home  more  than 
at  any  time  since  he  had  left  it.  It  had  always  been  the 
scene  of  family  gatherings,  with  tremendous  feastings  and 
jollities  kept  up  from  daylight  to  dark  and  far  beyond  it. 
His  father  was  at  the  head  of  a  tribe  of  relations  many 


350  PIPPIN 

of  whom  gathered  in  the  ancient  spacious  house  to  make 
festivity,  both  in  honour  of  the  season  and  for  the  keep- 
ing up  of  family  ties.  Pippin  himself  was  nearly  a  genera- 
tion behind  the  cousins  who  came  there  with  their  chil- 
dren.  In  Alison  and  him  the  second  and  third  generations 
met.  The  rest  were  either  older  or  younger,  and  they  two 
had  always  been  a  little  apart  together.  He  thought  con- 
stantly of  Alison  on  this  first  Christmas  which  he  had  not 
spent  in  her  company.  They  would  have  met  in  church, 
walked  home  together  across  the  snowy  fields,  sat  next 
to  each  other  at  the  table  in  the  great  kitchen  which  was 
always  used  for  these  gatherings,  and  during  the  feasting 
and  the  present-giving  and  the  games,  as  well  as  in  the 
quieter  intervals  of  the  heaped-up  festivities,  it  was  she 
would  have  counted  for  most  with  him,  as  he  thought 
now  that  he  would  have  counted  with  her.  His  heart  went 
out  to  her  with  longing,  and  he  knew  that  she  would  be 
missing  him  too,  at  every  moment. 

Snow  had  fallen  in  the  town,  but  it  was  not  the  glisten- 
ing white  covering  to  the  sleeping  earth  that  it  was  in  the 
country.  The  sun  shone  palely  on  the  slushy  streets,  no 
more  than  a  reminder  of  the  winter  sunshine  of  a  country 
Christmas.  There  was  no  air  of  festivity  out  of  doors, 
but  only  the  Sunday  morning  trickle  of  traffic,  fuller  to- 
wards church  time.  Pippin  went  to  church,  to  the  great 
cathedral,  where  the  music  gloriously  celebrated  the  joy- 
ous festival.  This  service  was  something  to  have  seen  and 
heard,  but  he  was  wishing  himself  all  the  time  in  the  little 
ancient  church  between  Alison's  home  and  his,  with  its 
decoration  of  holly  and  box  and  yew,  and  no  music  but 
the  voices  of  the  villagers  indifferently  accompanied  on  a 
tiny  organ. 


PIPPIN    SEES   IT   THROUGH         351 

There  was  nothing  to  complain  of  in  Mrs.  Blunt's 
Christmas  dinner,  at  which  their  friend  the  coachman,  who 
was  a  hardy  bachelor,  made  a  fourth.  All  three  of  the 
elderly  people  were  pleased  to  have  Pippin  there  to 
brighten  up  the  occasion,  and  he  exerted  himself  to  season- 
able merriment ;  but  how  he  missed  the  crowded  table  of 
his  home  with  all  its  talk  and  laughter !  After  dinner  they 
sat  over  their  port  and  walnuts,  with  the  paper  caps  from 
the  crackers  that  Mrs.  Blunt  had  thoughtfully  provided 
on  their  heads,  and  were  comfortable  and  friendly.  They 
put  Pippin  in  the  front  of  their  celebration,  and  showed 
more  than  a  mere  liking  for  him.  But  his  heart  was  heavier 
at  this  time  than  at  others,  and  he  was  glad  when  a  dis- 
position to  seek  slumber  on  the  part  of  his  elders  set  him 
free  for  a  walk  with  Ben  in  the  chilly  light  of  the  after- 
noon. 

In  the  evening  Mr.  Blunt  left  them,  to  attend  on  her 
ladyship's  dinner,  and  Pippin  went  to  church  again  with 
Mrs.  Blunt,  who  had  been  too  busy  to  go  in  the  morning 
and  showed  that  she  would  like  his  company.  They  came 
back  to  a  light  supper,  and  Pippin  went  up  to  bed  about 
the  time  that  they  would  all  be  gathering  round  the  hearth 
at  his  home,  to  mull  wine,  roast  chestnuts,  and  vie  with 
one  another  in  the  telling  of  ghost  stories  told  so  often 
that  they  had  lost  their  power  to  thrill,  except  to  an  emo- 
tion of  sociability. 

After  Christmas  Pippin  never  lost  the  longing  to  be 
home  again.  There  were  things  of  interest  still  to  be  seen, 
and  various  amusements,  denied  to  country  dwellers,  with 
which  he  could  fill  up  his  spare  time;  but  the  chief  part 
of  his  days  was  taken  up  by  his  emploj'ment,  which  suited 
him  well  enough  for  the  earning  of  his  living,  as  long  as  he 


352  PIPPIN 

had  to  earn  it,  but,  since  he  was  to  leave  it  presently, 
carried  with  it  no  expectation  of  progress,  which  is  the 
salt  of  all  work,  whether  of  the  brain  or  the  hands.  There 
were  little  changes  in  his  life:  it  was  never  quite  the  same 
at  the  end  of  the  month  as  at  the  beginning.  This  or 
that  person  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  affected  his 
attitude  towards  the  world  around  him.  He  came  to 
know  young  people  here  and  there  and  to  like  some  of 
them.  If  he  had  been  going  to  settle  down  to  a  life  in  the 
city  he  would  have  been  in  the  way  of  warming  it  witn 
companionships,  some  of  which  would  have  developed  into 
friendships.  Now  and  then,  on  Sundays,  or  at  other  times 
when  he  was  not  working,  he  had  enjoyment  of  something 
that  coloured  his  life.  It  was  not  all  monotony,  but  he 
was  not  anchored  to  it,  and  as  the  weeks  went  by  and  the 
time  of  his  freedom  came  nearer,  it  became  increasingly 
irksome  to  have  his  days  filled  with  this  too  familiar  round. 
He  had  fixed  the  date  upon  which  he  would  put  it  all  behind 
him  and  set  his  face  towards  his  much  desired  home.  It 
seemed  good  to  him  to  plan  for  his  arrival  there  on  the 
very  day  of  the  year  on  which  he  had  left  it.  He  would 
take  his  pack  on  his  back,  whistle  to  Ben,  and  walk  through 
the  country  again,  in  which  the  spring,  of  whose  coming 
the  town  seemed  unaware  long  after  a  thousand  signs 
would  have  heralded  it  in  the  country,  would  be  in  full 
riot.  He  made  innumerable  calculations  of  the  day  on 
which  he  must  set  forth,  and  the  ground  he  must  cover, 
and  after  he  had  finally  fixed  it  advanced  it  by  a  week, 
he  was  so  eager  to  be  on  the  road. 

During  his  last  month  his  approaching  departure  was 
Seldom  out  of  his  mind,  and  during  the  last  week  he  was 
making  his   reckonings  all  the  time:  only  so  many  hours 


PIPPIN    SEES    IT    THROUGH         353 

more  to  be  driving  about,  only  so  many  more  parcels  to 
deliver,  this  house  or  this  street  seen  for  the  last  time. 

But  when  he  discharged  himself  from  his  occupation  at 
last,  and  was  free  to  go  where  he  liked,  with  money  in  his 
pocket  and  a  good  suit  of  clothes  on  his  back,  he  lingered 
for  three  days  more.  It  was  either  that  or  dawdling  on 
the  road,  if  he  kept  to  his  plan  of  arrival ;  and  he  would 
not  want  to  dawdle  when  once  his  face  was  set  homewards. 

The  town  had  suddenly  become  attractive  to  him. 
There  were  mild  days  full  of  sunshine,  and  now  it  had 
taken  the  spring  to  its  bosom,  in  its  own  wa}%  which  was 
different  from  the  way  of  the  country,  but  beguiling.  The 
trees  in  the  squares  showed  no  sign  of  leafage,  there  was 
nowhere  in  which  the  shy  tokens  of  the  advancing  year 
could  be  looked  for.  But  the  flowers  were  coming  in  pro- 
fusion— in  far  more  profusion  than  in  the  country,  where 
they  are  left  to  take  their  own  time  about  it.  The  baskets 
of  the  flower-sellers  were  heaped  with  treasures  of  colour 
and  scent,  masses  of  bloom  were  carried  about  in  barrows 
and  hawked  from  door  to  door.  Pippin  himself  had  to 
carry  pots  of  flowering  plants  and  great  sheaves  of  blos- 
som, all  very  carefully  protected,  among  his  other  mer- 
chandise. Some  of  the  window-boxes  of  the  houses,  empty 
during  the  winter,  or  showing  dull  little  evergreen  shrubs, 
bloomed  in  a  night  with  gay  hyacinths  and  daffodils. 
Gorgeous  beds  of  spring-flowering  bulbs  could  be  seen 
through  the  railings  of  the  parks.  An  army  of  labour  was 
employed.  You  passed  by  them  one  day  and  it  was  win- 
ter; a  few  days  afterwards  it  was  bright  spring. 

The  town  was  taken  with  the  desire  for  cleanliness  and 
freshening  itself  up  generally.  The  painters  had  come  out 
of  their  winter  seclusion  and  were  at  work  on  the  house- 


354.  PIPPIN 

fronts  in  every  quarter.  In  their  white  overalls  they 
looked  summery,  and  the  very  smell  of  paint  brought 
with  it  the  same  sense  of  spring  as  the  scent  of  flowers. 

There  were  gayer  colours  in  the  shops ;  on  fine  days  the 
women's  hats  were  more  flowery,  and  their  clothes  lighter 
in  colour  as  well  as  texture.  Some  of  the  drivers  of 
hansom  cabs,  admired  of  Pippin,  sported  their  grey  top- 
hats  ;  the  coats  of  their  horses  began  to  glisten. 

There  was  no  doubt  that  the  spring  had  come,  even 
when  the  sun  went  in,  and  the  east  wind  scurried  through 
the  streets.  There  would  be  set-backs  yet  before  it  was 
safe  to  trust  it  for  genial  warmth,  but  every  day  would 
bring  it  nearer  to  its  full,  and  the  town  was  all  preparing 
for  that  time,  and  making  the  most  of  the  brief  spells  in 
which  it  seemed  already  to  have  arrived.  Pippin  found  it 
a  pleasant  enough  place  during  those  last  few  days,  in 
which  he  was  at  leisure.  He  would  have  carried  away  a 
very  different  impression  if  he  had  left  it  at  the  New 
Year,  as  for  a  short  time  he  had  been  tempted  to  do. 
And  it  was  satisfactory  to  have  seen  those  months  through, 
without  shirking  the  disagreeables.  He  would  have  noth- 
ing to  regret  now  in  the  way  he  had  spent  his  time,  and 
made  use  of  his  opportunities.  He  was  conscious  of  an 
increase  of  strength  in  himself  as  well  as  of  experience. 
His  mistakes  had  helped  him  to  that  end  as  well  as  his 
successes,  and  the  dull  times  perhaps  more  than  those 
which  he  remembered  with  pleasure. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blunt  took  leave  of  him  with  regret.  It 
had  not  always  been  easy  to  subdue  his  desires  and  in- 
clinations to  the  staid  order  which  they  liked  to  have 
about  them.  But  he  had  done  that,  too,  and  given  them 
willing  help  at  all  times. 


PIPPIN    SEES   IT   THROUGH         355 

"I  knew  I  should  like  you  from  the  first,"  Mrs.  Blunt 
said  to  him.  "There  was  a  something  about  your  smile  and 
your  freckled  face  that  took  my  fancy  the  moment  you 
came  in,  though  if  I'd  known  where  you'd  come  from,  and 
where  you  was  going  back  to,  I  might  not  have  been  so 
ready  with  my  offer  to  take  you  in.  My  husband  said  I 
was  a  fool  to  do  it  without  knowing  more  about  you,  but 
I  was  right  and  he  was  wrong,  and  he  has  owned  up  now 
that  it  was  so.  Well,  I  suppose  we  shan't  see  you  again. 
You've  been  a  dear  good  boy  to  us,  and  we  shan't  forget 
you." 

But  Pippin  said  they  must  come  and  see  him  in  his 
home,  and  though  he  should  not  come  again  to  the  city  for 
work,  he  might  later  on  for  play,  and  it  was  to  them  he 
would  come,  who  had  been  the  best  of  friends  to  him. 

"You  will  be  welcome  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Blunt ;  "but 
don't  come  alone  when  you  do  come.  You've  made  two  old 
folks  love  you,  who  have  none  of  their  own  to  come  after 
them.  You'll  want  the  love  of  somebody  closer  before 
many  years  have  gone  by,  and  I  should  like  to  see  her 
before  I  go." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

PIPPIN     STARTS    FOR    HOME    AND    MEETS    AN    OLD 
ACQUAINTANCE 

Pippin  let  himself  out  of  the  silent  house  very  quietly. 
Town-dwellers  do  not  rise  early  unless  there  is  necessity 
for  it,  and  he  did  not  want  to  disturb  the  slumbers  of  his 
friends,  to  whom  he  had  bade  farewell  the  night  before. 
Ben,  who  had  shown  himself  so  amenable  to  training,  had 
been  taught  not  to  raise  his  voice  in  the  house,  but  he 
knew  what  was  before  him  when  he  saw  Pippin  fill  his 
pack,  and  the  moment  the  door  was  shut  behind  them  gave 
vent  to  his  ecstasy  in  a  paean  of  barks,  which  resounded 
in  the  narrow  street,  and  must  have  awakened  at  least 
half  the  inhabitants  of  it. 

"It's  no  good,  dear  master;  I've  simply  got  to  give 
tongue.  Nothing  has  ever  happened  that  pleases  me  so 
much  as  this,  for  it's  the  long  road  this  time,  I  know. 
You  would  bark  yourself,  if  you  knew  how  to.  If  you  had 
told  me  last  night  what  was  in  the  wind  I  should  hardly 
have  believed  you.  Let's  get  out  of  it.  Come  along,  come 
along!  Hullo,  there's  a  maid  cleaning  a  doorstep!  She's 
up  early.  I  must  just  go  and  tell  her;  and  I  think  I'll 
have  a  drink  out  of  her  pail.  Barking  is  thirsty  work. 
All  right,  Mary,  no  need  to  make  a  fuss;  I  shan't  hurt 
you.  That's  better.  Good-bye!  I'm  off  with  my  mas- 
ter." 

They   passed   through   the  region   of  squares   and  fine 

houses,  and  those  that  were  not  quite  so  fine,  crossed  the 

356 


PIPPIN    STARTS    FOR    HOME        357 

river,  and  went  through  the  poorer  quarters,  where  the 
slatternly  beginning  of  the  day  was  in  full  progress.  It 
was  not  until  they  had  reached  the  suburbs,  in  which  the 
houses  were  beginning  to  get  bigger  and  to  have  gardens 
in  front  of  and  behind  them,  that  Pippin  found  a  place 
in  which  he  could  breakfast.  It  was  not  such  a  breakfast 
as  he  could  have  got  in  a  country  inn,  with  fresh  eggs  and 
butter,  and  hot  sizzling  bacon ;  but  that  would  come  later. 
There  was  a  satisfaction  in  keeping  something  for  antici- 
pation, which  was  partly  why  Pippin  had  not  taken  a 
train  out  of  the  city  and  started  his  last  walk  in  the 
country.  He  wanted  to  walk  out  as  he  had  walked  in, 
losing  by  degrees  the  evidences  of  the  town,  as  then  they 
had  increased  upon  him. 

It  took  him  the  whole  of  the  day  to  do  it.  After  a  time 
he  would  come  upon  little  patches  of  what  seemed  open 
land,  and  then  the  streets  and  the  houses  would  close  in 
upon  him  again.  When  he  had  got  clear  of  the  suburbs 
the  suburban  towns  and  villages  strung  themselves  along 
the  road,  each  of  them  throwing  out  its  own  tentacles  of 
rapid  building  to  meet  the  next,  so  that  it  would  not  be 
long  before  they  were  all  swallowed  up  in  the  ever  advanc- 
ing tide  of  brick  and  slate.  When  he  had  passed  beyond 
the  farthest  limit  of  the  tram-lines,  curbstones  and  lamp- 
posts still  accompanied  him ;  but  now  there  were  handsome 
villas  in  large  gardens,  and  now  and  then  green  meadows 
or  little  woods,  but  all  enclosed,  and  attending  upon  the 
amenities  of  the  house  to  which  they  belonged.  These  were 
pleasant  places  enough  for  those  who  wanted  trees  and 
grass  and  flowers  around  them,  but  must  be  within  easy 
reach  of  the  town.  Behind  them,  no  doubt,  there  was  un- 
touched country  here  and  there,  with  hedge-bordered  lanes 


358  PIPPIN 

running  past  farms  and  open  fields;  but  on  the  main  road 
there  were  only  the  walls  or  the  palings  of  the  private 
grounds.  There  was  no  sense  of  the  freedom  of  the  coun- 
trv  for  miles  outside  the  city.  Tippin  and  Ben  had  to 
keep  between  the  parallels  of  the  road;  but  the  road  was 
leading  them  forward,  and  sooner  or  later  the  influence  of 
the  town  must  depart  from  it,  and  the  country  through 
which  they  would  walk  bring  with  it  that  uplifting  and 
calming  of  the  spirit  which  cannot  be  enjoyed  in  towns. 

It  was  in  a  town  that  Pippin  slept  that  night.  It  did 
not  consider  itself  to  belong  to  the  great  city,  and  he  was 
thought  to  have  performed  a  great  feat  in  walking  so  far 
in  a  day,  but  also  to  be  rather  foolish  to  have  done  it, 
since  he  could  have  covered  the  distance  by  train  in  about 
half  an  hour.  He  had  walked  fewer  miles  than  on  many 
another  day  of  his  journcyings,  but  he  could  go  no  far- 
ther, or  he  would  not  have  slept  in  a  town  at  all.  Every 
muscle  of  his  body  ached,  and  Ben  was  so  tired  that  he 
could  scarcely  be  roused  to  interest  by  the  offer  of  food. 
They  had  become  townsmen  both,  unfitted  for  exertions 
that  would  presently  be  nothing  to  them. 

It  took  them  some  days  more  to  get  into  the  state  nat- 
ural to  both  of  them,  and  by  that  time  the  smiling  country 
was  all  about  them,  and  the  last  taint  of  the  town  far 
behind.  On  they  went,  up  hill  and  down  hill  and  on  level 
ground,  sometimes  walking  for  miles  along  the  highway, 
sometimes  leaving  it  for  paths  that  took  them  through 
fields  or  through  woods  or  along  gliding  rivers.  Some- 
times it  was  fine,  sometimes  it  rained,  but  they  enjoyed  it 
all,  and  each  night  as  he  lay  down  to  sleep  Pippin  thought. 
of  the  miles  that  he  had  put  behind  him  and  the  steadily 
decreasing  distance  between  him  and  his  home. 


PIPPIN    STARTS    FOR    HOME        359 

He  had  covered  about  half  the  distance  when  he  had  an 
encounter  which  curiously  linked  the  ending  of  his  walk 
with  its  beginning. 

He  had  been  walking  for  some  distance  by  a  high  stone 
wall  which  enclosed  a  gentleman's  park.  By  and  by  he 
came  to  the  gates  giving  entrance  to  it.  On  one  side  of 
them  was  a  low-built  lodge,  with  a  bright  little  ordered 
garden  in  front  of  it.  On  the  other  there  was  a  building 
of  more  importance.  It  had  a  high-pointed  roof  in  the 
French  style,  with  an  ornamented  window  flush  with  the 
park  wall,  and  at  some  height  in  it.  On  the  stretch  of 
grass  between  the  wall  and  the  road  was  a  huge  plane- 
tree  not  yet  in  leaf.  The  road  through  the  park,  which 
could  be  seen  between  the  bars  of  the  tall  iron  gates,  led 
to  a  handsome  house,  the  many  windows  of  which  were 
gleaming  in  the  afternoon  sunshine;  and  a  little  farther 
down  the  road  showed  the  squat  tower  of  an  old  church, 
which  seemed  to  stand  within  the  park  itself. 

There  was  something  in  all  this  which  struck  a  chord  in 
Pippin's  memory,  and  puzzled  him  greatly  as  he  walked 
on.  For  the  road  on  which  he  was  now  walking  was  many 
miles  from  the  place  where  he  had  turned  aside  with  the 
circus.  He  had  never  seen  this  place  before,  and  the  sense 
of  something  vaguely  familiar  was  not  what  would  have 
been  aroused  by  a  picture. 

He  came  to  a  turn  in  the  road,  and  saw  some  way  ahead 
of  him  an  elderly  gentleman  taking  a  walk.  He  was  thin 
and  tall,  dressed  in  the  well-cut  tweeds  of  a  man  of  quality. 
He  walked  slowly,  using  a  stick,  more  as  a  support  than  a 
plaything. 

Ben  raced  towards  him.  He  could  never  rid  himself  of 
the   idea   that   everybody  he  met   on  the   road  would  be 


;jgo  p  I  r  r  I N 

glad  to  make  his  acquaintance,  if  he  gave  him  the  oppor- 
tunity, though  lie  sometimes  got  a  snub  for  his  pains. 

He  got  one  now,  for  the  gentleman,  startled  by  his  sud- 
den approach,  hit  at  him  with  his  stick,  and  turned  round 
with  an  air  of  annoyance  to  see  who  was  coming.  Ben 
came  back  to  Pippin  to  tell  him  that  this  was  a  person 
devoid  of  manners,  and  he  had  better  have  as  little  to  do 
with  him  as  possible. 

Pippin  was  inclined  to  the  same  opinion,  for  a  light 
had  sprung  up  in  his  mind,  and  in  spite  of  the  change  in 
clothing,  and  in  his  gait  a  lack  of  his  former  vigour,  he 
had  recognized  his  old  acquaintance,  the  Gentleman  Tramp, 
from  whom  he  had  parted  a  year  before  not  on  the  best  of 
terms.  He  knew  now  why  the  pavilion  by  the  lodge-gates, 
and  the  great  tree,  and  the  church  in  the  park,  had  struck 
a  chord  in  his  memory.  They  were  what  this  man  had 
described  to  him  in  the  home  of  his  childhood,  and  had 
made  a  picture  in  his  mind,  which  had  remained  there, 
though  he  had  not  thought  of  it  since. 

Then  the  lifelong  vagabond  had  returned  to  his  home 
at  last !  Pippin's  curiosity  to  know  how  this  had  come 
about  overcame  his  dislike  for  this  man,  and  he  determined 
to  make  himself  known  to  him,  if  he  should  not  recognize 
him. 

He  had  time  to  observe  him  as  he  approached.  He  was 
much  changed  from  when  Pippin  had  last  seen  him.  It 
was  not  only  his  clothes  that  were  so  different.  PI  is  beard 
had  been  neatly  trimmed  in  his  vagabond  state,  and  he  was 
not  altered  in  that  respect,  except  that  it  was  white  where 
before  it  had  only  been  grey.  His  face  was  pale  and  his 
eyes  sunken,  and  his  whole  body  seemed  to  have  shrunk, 
though  he  held  it  erect  as  he  waited  for  Pippin  to  come 


PIPPIN    STARTS    FOR   HOME        361 

up  to  him.     He  was  an  old  man,  where  only  a  year  before 
he  had  been  no  more  than  of  middle  age,  and  active  with  it. 

He  spoke  very  haughtily  when  Pippin  came  within  ear- 
shot. "I  wish  you  would  keep  your  mongrel  dog  within 
bounds,  sir,"  he  said.  "Let  me  tell  you  that  if  he  is 
caught  trespassing  off  the  road  he  is  very  likely  to  be  shot 
by  one  of  my  keepers." 

"As  your  spaniel  was  shot  years  ago,  when  you  and  he 
trespassed,"  returned  Pippin. 

He  was  annoyed  at  his  manner  of  address  and  his  call- 
ing Ben  a  mongrel,  in  his  old  abusive  style,  but  was  imme- 
diately sorry  that  he  had  spoken  in  this  way,  for  the 
man's  face  went  white,  and  his  shrunken  body  seemed  to 
shrink  into  itself  still  further.  But  he  recovered  himself 
immediately,  laughed  with  affected  heartiness,  and  said: 
"Why,  it's  my  young  friend  the  yokel,  and  still  on  the 
road !  Well,  this  is  a  meeting  indeed,  and  I  wonder  that 
I  did  not  recognize  you.  But  you  have  gained  an  air, 
young  man,  since  we  had  that  pleasant  walk  together, 
and  I  told  you  my  story.  I've  no  wish,  by  the  by,  that  it 
shall  be  brought  up  again  in  these  parts,  where  it  was 
never  known  in  its  entirety  and  is  now  forgotten.  If  you 
tell  it,  as  no  doubt  you  will,  kindly  wait  until  you  get 
away  from  this  country,  and  then  omit  my  name,  which 
is  highly  respected." 

"You  never  told  me  your  name,"  said  Pippin. 

"Then  I  won't  tell  it  you  now.  But  of  course  it  will 
be  easy  enough  for  you  to  find  out  what  it  is,  by  asking 
questions." 

"I  see  you  still  have  the  same  low  opinion  of  your  fellow- 
men,"  said  Pippin.  "But  your  name  is  nothing  to  me, 
and  I  shall  ask  no  question  about  you  at  all." 


362  PIPPIN 

His  face  changed,  and  he  even  looked  a  little  ashamed 
of  himself.  "I  remember  you  now  as  an  honest  young 
man,'"  he  said,  "and  that  my  honesty  Avas  not  glaringly 
apparent  when  we  parted  from  one  another.  As  for  hav- 
ing a  low  opinion  of  my  fellow-men,  it  is  true  that  I  think 
very  little  of  them  in  the  mass,  but  that  there  are  good 
ones  among  them  I  have  reason  to  know." 

They  were  walking  on  slowly.  "I  remember  your  de- 
scription of  your  home,"  Pippin  said,  "and  it  seemed  fa- 
miliar to  me  as  I  passed  it  just  now,  though  I  couldn't 
tell  why  till  I  saw  you.  I  am  glad  you  have  come  back 
to  it." 

"Yes,  I  have  come  back,"  he  said  with  a  sigh.  "VVould 
you  like  to  know  how  I  came  back,  and  the  reception  I 
got?     If  so,  let  us  sit  on  this  stile,  and  I  will  tell  you." 

He  seated  himself  on  the  lower  step  of  a  stile  which 
marked  a  field-path  just  here,  while  Pippin  threw  himself 
on  the  grass,  not  sorry  for  a  rest,  and  anxious  to  hear  the 
end  of  his  story. 

"It  was  in  the  winter  that  I  came  back,"  he  said,  "in  that 
bitter  cold  time  that  you  remember  just  before  Christ- 
mas. I  was  feeling  it  more  than  I  had  ever  felt  rough 
weather  before,  and  I  think  I  must  already  have  been  a 
trifle  light-headed  with  my  illness  coming  on  me;  for  I 
had  always  kept  away  from  this  part  of  the  country  in 
all  my  wanderings,  and  yet  I  seemed  to  be  drawn  to  it. 
Certainly  I  was  light-headed  on  that  last  day,  when  it 
snowed  and  snowed  as  if  it  would  never  leave  off,  and  I 
went  on  walking  through  it  without  stopping,  but  never 
recognized  a  sign  of  anything  familiar,  or  knew  in  the 
Least  where  I  was.  And  that  is  curious,  because  all  the 
time  I  was  saying  I  must  go  home  and  go  to  bed,  and  my 


PIPPIN    STARTS    FOR   HOME        363 

mother  would  look  after  me.  And  yet  I  felt  as  strong  as 
ever  in  my  life,  and  must  have  covered  an  enormous  dis- 
tance before  I  collapsed. 

"Something  in  my  brain  must  have  been  directing  my 
steps  without  my  knowing  it,  for  when  I  came  to  the  gates 
of  the  park  which  you  passed  just  now  I  stopped  short, 
though  I  must  have  passed  many  such  entrances  and  gone 
pounding  along  the  road  without  turning  my  head  to  look 
at  them.  At  any  rate,  it  seemed  quite  natural  that  I 
should  be  there,  and  I  suppose  I  should  have  rung  the 
bell,  which  one  always  had  to  do  in  the  old  days,  and  gone 
in;  but  it  was  just  then  that  my  strength  suddenly  failed 
me. 

"The  next  thing  I  knew,  I  was  lying  in  the  snow,  but 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was  lying  in  bed,  and  my  brother 
was  leaning  over  me.  That  seemed  quite  natural  too, 
though  it  was  over  forty  years  since  I  had  seen  him,  and 
I  called  his  name. 

"That  was  all  I  knew  at  that  time,  but  I  learnt  after- 
wards that  he  had  been  driving  home,  and  his  horse  had 
shied  at  a  man  lying  half-buried  in  the  snow  at  the  side 
of  the  road.  A  disreputable  tramp  he  was,  for  all  he 
could  tell,  but  I  think  he  would  have  taken  him  in  and  put 
him  to  bed  anyhow,  for  that  is  the  sort  of  man  he  is.  He 
knew  me  when  I  called  his  name.  He  had  never  forgotten 
me,  he  told  me  afterwards,  and  had  always  hoped  to  see  me 
again. 

"He  was  driving  alone.  The  old  lodge-keeper  and  his 
wife  were  superannuated  servants  who  could  be  trusted 
not  to  tell  how  it  was  that  the  eldest  son  of  the  house  had 
come  home.  They  put  me  to  bed  in  the  lodge,  and  it  was 
a  long  time  before  I  could  be  moved  to  the  house,  for  I 


304  PIPPIN 

was  m  iv  ill,  and  should  certainly  have  died  in  the  snow 
if  niv  brother  had  not  found  me.  I  am  not  quih  myself 
even  now,  but  I  am  getting  better  every  day,  and  with  the 
spring  coming  on  I  shall  be  as  strong  as  ever  I  was.  I 
have  lived  a  hard  and  active  life,  as  you  know,  and  I  am 
a  younger  man  than  my  brother  in  all  that  matters,  though 
he  has  the  advantage  of  me  by  several  years." 

This  unexpected  boast  struck  Pippin  sadly.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  this  man  was  not  long  to  enjoy  his  restora- 
tion to  his  home.  The  death  of  the  poor  rider  of  the 
circus  had  marked  Pippin's  memory  painfully.  There 
were  the  same  signs  here,  the  emaciated  face  and  body,  the 
helpless  cough,  even  the  denial  towards  the  end  of  any- 
thing wrong.  The  end  would  not  be  quite  yet.  He  would 
walk  for  a  little  longer  in  the  sun,  as  he  was  doing  on  this 
fine  afternoon,  but  his  walks  would  soon  be  over.  It  was 
well  for  him  that  they  had  not  ended  some  weeks  before. 

But  this  impression  passed.  He  was  still  so  full  of 
vitality,  in  spite  of  the  weakness  of  his  body,  and  had 
already  shown  that  he  had  not  lost  all  his  old  habits  of 
speech  and  behavior.  It  was  not  possible,  listening  to  his 
talk,  to  think  of  him  as  a  man  nearing  his  end. 

"I  had  always  done  my  father  an  injustice  in  my  mind," 
he  went  on,  in  a  more  sprightly  tone.  "He  was  hard 
upon  me,  as  I  told  you,  and  when  he  cast  me  adrift  he 
put  my  brother  in  my  place.  He  told  him  that  he  had 
done  so  because  I  had  misbehaved  myself,  but  nothing 
more,  and  he  allowed  him  to  think  that  he  had  treated 
me  with  unjustifiable  harshness  till  the  day  of  his  death. 
So  you  see  that  I  return  to  the  home  of  my  fathers  a 
much-wronged  man,  and — " 

He  broke  off  suddenly  and  cast  a  look  of  some  suspicion 


PIPPIN    STARTS    FOR    HOME        365 

at  Pippin.  "I  suppose  I  can  trust  you,"  he  said,  "not 
to  repeat  anything  I  am  telling  you,  at  least  until  you  get 
away  from  where  it  might  do  me  harm." 

"I  have  already  told  you  that  you  can,"  said  Pippin. 

"Well,  it  is  some  relief  to  be  able  to  unburden  nry  mind 
a  little.  The  part  I  have  to  play  now  is  becoming  irk- 
some to  me,  now  I  am  nearly  free  of  my  sickness,  and 
ready  to  take  my  place  in  the  world  again.  You  may 
imagine  that  I  shall  be  very  careful  to  avoid  recognition 
by  those  who  knew  me  when  I  was — er — travelling  the 
country,  shall  we  say?  But  you  are  rather  different.  I 
took  a  fancy  to  you  the  moment  I  saw  you  first,  when  you 
were  in  need  of  a  meal,  and  being  flush  of  money  at  the 
time  I  provided  you  with  one.  You  listened  to  my  story 
then,  I  remember,  with  a  courtesy  beyond  your  years  and 
station  in  life.  Of  course  I  must  have  told  it  well,  though 
it  is  possible  that  I  softened  some  of  the  details  of  it  to 
suit  your  innocent  ears.  I  must  confess  I  like  talking 
about  myself,  and  keeping  nothing  back — or  very  little. 
You  shall  be  my  father  confessor,  and  I  will  confide  to 
you  that  the  pretence  I  have  to  keep  up  in  my  brother's 
house  is  becoming  infernalhT  wearisome  to  me,  and,  good 
and  worthy  man  though  he  is,  I  am  becoming  sick  of  the 
sight  of  him." 

"You  used  to  be  pretty  good  at  keeping  up  a  pretence," 
said  Pippin.  "I  should  have  thought  there  would  be  no 
necessity  for  it  now,  and  the  kindness  you  have  met  with 
might  deserve  a  better  return.  And  it  was  I  who  pro- 
vided you  with  a  meal  when  we  first  met,  and  not  you 
me." 

"It  may  have  been  so,  and  if  it  was,  it  ill  becomes  you 
to  remind  me  of  it.    But  I  remember  now  that  you  were  a 


366  PIPPIN 

stern  moralist,  and  parted  from  me  in  dudgeon  because 
I  sat  too  lightly  to  your  code.  Ah,  those  were  good  days, 
after  all,  when  one  had  the  excitement  of  providing  for 
daily  wants  by  the  exercise  of  wit  and  adroitness.  I  have 
no  such  pleasures  now.  I  have  the  best  of  meat  and  drink 
served  to  nic  and  I  care  nothing  for  it,  but  hate  to  sit 
interminably  at  table  listening  to  dull  chatter  about  noth- 
ing at  all,  or,  if  I  import  some  brightness  into  it  by  re- 
counting some  of  my  adventures,  having  to  bethink  myself 
all  the  time  of  what  I  said  on  the  last  occasion,  so  as  not 
to  contradict  myself." 

"Then  you  do  tell  them  of  your  adventures?" 
"I  suppose  you  may  call  them  my  adventures,  since  I 
go  to  the  trouble  of  inventing  them.  It  amused  me  to  do 
so  at  first,  but  I  went  at  it  too  light-heartedly,  and  it  is 
becoming  difficult  to  keep  the  thread.  My  brother  be- 
lieves everything  I  say,  of  course.  In  his  eyes  at  least  I 
am  a  much  injured  man,  who  kept  up  a  brave  struggle 
with  a  fate  that  was  at  last  too  much  for  me,  when  I  put 
on  a  suit  of  old  clothes,  omitted  to  wash,  and  came  home 
to  die  on  his  doorstep.  But  unless  I  am  mistaken  sus- 
picion is  breeding  elsewhere.  I  have  nephews  and  nieces. 
They  do  not  quite  understand  me.  There  is  a  dulncss  of 
spirit  in  them  which  is  painful  to  me  to  contemplate  in 
those  who  are  of  the  same  blood  as  myself.  I  am  wasted 
on  them.  And  yet  there  I  am,  in  a  house  that  ought  to 
have  been  my  own,  a  pensioner  on  a  man  with  but  a  tithe 
of  my  ability,  and — " 

"But  with  ten  times  your  kindness  and  goodness,"  Pip- 
pin broke  in  on  him,  indignantly.  "I  wonder  you  are  not 
ashamed  to  show  yourself  in  the  light  you  do  after  the 
way  he  has  treated  you." 


PIPPIN    STARTS    FOR   HOME        367 

"I  told  you  he  was  a  good  man,"  he  said,  quite  un- 
abashed, "and  let  that  be  enough.  A  good  man  may  be  a 
very  dull  man,  and  in  my  experience  usually  is  so.  You 
are  not  a  little  dull  yourself,  and  you  are  always  impress- 
ing upon  me  your  goodness.  One  did  not  meet  many  good 
men  on  the  road,  and  got  away  from  them  as  soon  as 
possible  when  one  did.  But  how  merry  the  company  was 
at  times,  and  how  I  sometimes  long  to  go  back  to  it ! 
When  your  dog  so  startled  me,  I  was  actually  imagining 
myself  manoeuvring  for  a  meal,  as  I  believe  I  did  with  you 
on  our  first  meeting.  It  would  taste  much  better  if  I 
could  get  it  in  that  way  than  the  dinner  I  shall  presently 
sit  down  to,  in  another  suit  of  clothes,  for  which  I  shall 
have  the  useless  labour  of  changing  this  one,  and  waited  on 
by  men  before  whom  I  shall  have  to  act  as  if  I  had  never 
eaten  a  meal  that  had  not  been  handed  to  me.  This  life 
is  stifling  me.  I  liked  it  at  first,  for  a  change,  but  it  is 
duller  than  any  life  I  have  lived  for  years  past,  and  most 
dull  in  being  so  comfortable.  I  tell  you  that  the  only  dis- 
advantage of  the  life  I  lived  for  so  long  was  that  one 
never  had  enough  money  in  one's  pocket.  With  what  my 
brother  gives  me — with  apologies  for  having  to  give  what 
should  have  been  mine — I  could  go  my  old  way  like  a  king. 
When  the  weather  gets  warmer,  and  I  shake  off  this 
tiresome  cough,  which  is  all  that  remains  of  my  illness,  I 
shall  take  the  road  again.  I  shall  make  some  polite  ex- 
cuse to  get  away,  and  of  course  I  shall  come  back  again 
when  I  have  had  enough  of  it.  My  brother  has  treated 
me  well,  as  I  told  you,  and  I  owe  him  some  recompense. 
How  I  wish  I  were  coming  with  you  now,  instead  of  going 
back  to  my  prison !  I  must  be  going  back  now,  or  they 
will  be  sending  to  look  for  me.     I  am  supposed  to  be 


368  PIPPIN 

something  of  an  invalid  still,  and  I  am  being  cosseted  and 
coddled  to  death." 

A   labouring   man   came   along  the   field-path,    and   the 

Gentleman  Tramp  got  up  from  the  stile  to  make  way  for 
him.  .  •  .  He  touched  his  hat  respectfully,  but  looked  a 
little  surprised  at  what  he  saw. 

"Well,  young  man,"  said  the  Gentleman  Tramp  to 
Pippin,  in  a  carrying  voice,  "I  have  heard  your  story  out 
wvy  patiently,  but  I  can  do  nothing  for  you.  I  have  no 
"work  that  I  can  give  you,  and  money  I  will  not  give  you. 
My  advice  to  you  is  to  get  back  to  the  paths  of  honesty 
and  virtue,  and  you  will  arrive  at  a  hale  and  respected 
age.     You  will  now  go  your  way  and  I  will  go  mine." 

He  went  down  the  road.  Ben  barked  at  him,  but  he  did 
not  look  back.  The  labouring  man  got  over  another  stile 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  and  throwing  a  glance  at 
him  was  moved  to  touch  his  hat  again,  so  stately  and  dis- 
tinguished was  his  presence. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 


journey's  end 


It  had  pleased  Pippin  to  plan  to  reach  home  not  only 
on  the  same  day  as  he  had  departed  but  at  the  same  hour. 
But  home,  for  this  purpose,  was  not  his  father's  house, 
but  that  in  which  his  cousin  Alison  lived,  the  red-roofed 
white-walled  house  on  the  downs,  with  the  chalk  stream 
running  in  front  of  it,  at  which  he  had  said  good-bye 
to  her. 

She  would  hardly  expect  him  at  that  hour,  but  he  would 
wait  until  she  came  out  of  the  house,  and  then  he  would 
tease  her,  and  say  that  she  had  promised  to  be  waiting 
for  him  at  the  end  of  the  year.  The  end  of  the  year 
had  come  an  hour  ago,  and  he  had  kept  to  his  promise, 
but  she  had  not.  The  idea  of  this  little  play  gave  him 
absurd  pleasure,  and  he  smiled  to  himself  as  he  walked 
up  the  hill  at  the  top  of  which  he  would  come  in  sight 
of  Alison's  home. 

He  had  slept  that  night  at  the  farm  at  which  he  had 
breakfasted  on  the  first  morning.  There  had  been  no 
difference  anywhere,  except  that  the  children  showed  their 
year's  growth.  The  lambing  season  was  on  again,  and  the 
same  cares  and  duties  filled  the  minds  of  these  pastorals. 
It  was  a  foretaste  of  his  home-coming  to  be  with  them. 

The  same  strong  clean  wind  blew  over  the  downs,  but 

he  had  it   at  his  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill.     The  sun 

was  up,  and  the  larks  towering  high  into  the  sky  to  greet 

it.     Great  spaces  were  all  around  him,  both  of  the  sky 

369 


370  PIPPIN 

and  of  the  earth.  He  thought  that  in  all  his  journeyings 
he  had  seen  no  fairer  country  than  this  of  his  birth. 
The  love  of  it  had  been  born  in  him.  It  would  have  been 
worth  while  to  go  away  for  a  year  if  only  for  the  keen 
joy  of  coming  back  to  it. 

Ben  also  seemed  pleased  with  this  open  country,  and 
raced  over  the  thymy  downland  turf,  covering  wide  circles 
while  Pippin  walked  up  the  hill,  but  came  obediently  to 
heel  when  called.  It  was  explained  to  him  that  to  chase 
wiry  moorland  sheep  who  could  run  nearly  as  fast  as  he 
could  was  a  venial  offence,  though  the  chasing  of  all  sheep 
must  be  abjured  at  this  time  of  the  year;  but  sheep  in 
this  country  were  not  to  be  chased  at  any  time,  and  if 
he  wished  to  earn  the  good  opinion  of  those  among  whom 
his  lot  was  now  to  be  cast  he  must  learn  to  behave  himself 
not  as  an  irresponsible  puppy  but  as  a  wise  dog  who 
knew  when  to  let  himself  go  and  when  to  hold  himself 
back. 

Ben  waved  his  tail  to  show  that  he  was  in  full  accord 
with  all  that  his  master  was  saying.  "Perhaps  I  haven't 
quite  caught  the  whole  of  it,  but  your  voice  is  music  to 
me,  and  I  can  tell  by  the  tone  of  it  that  you  are  giving 
me  good  advice.  You  may  rely  upon  me  to  follow  it. 
And  now,  if  you  have  quite  finished,  would  you  like  to 
see  me  start  that  fat  old  ewe  over  there?  She'll  run 
faster  than  ever  she  did  with  me  behind  her,  and  it  will 
do  her  lamb  good  to  learn  to  get  out  of  the  way.  You'd 
rather  I  didn't?  Very  well.  You  only  have  to  say  so. 
Go  on  talking  to  me  and  I'll  stay  by  you  as  long  as  you 
like." 

They  came  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  There  was  the  house 
nestling  below  them,  with  the  bright  flowers  in  the  garden, 


JOURNEY'S   END  371 

and  the  orchard  flanking  it,  and  the  white  road  beyond, 
dipping  to  the  vale  and  mounting  to  the  hill,  every  foot 
of  which  Pippin  knew.  It  was  all  most  wonderfully  the 
same,  and  yet  different,  for  he  saw  it  with  new  eyes.  And, 
oh,  how  good  it  was  to  see  it  again! 

The  house  was  shuttered,  except  the  window  of  Alison's 
room,  which  was  wide  open ;  for  she  liked  to  be  greeted 
by  the  sun  and  the  air  when  she  awoke  in  the  morning. 
It  was  just  the  hour  when  he  had  come  up  the  road 
a  year  before,  and  seen  her  standing  in  the  doorway, 
which  now  seemed  very  empty,  framing  a  closed  door  in- 
stead of  her  figure.  Perhaps  after  all,  he  would  not  wait 
for  the  hour  of  her  rising,  which  would  bring  others  out 
of  their  beds  too,  to  come  about  him  with  their  welcome. 
He  would  creep  up  the  garden  path  and  throw  little 
pebbles  into  her  window,  and  she  would  know  it  was  he 
who  was  there  when  they  woke  her,  for  he  had  roused  her 
in  that  way  before. 

But  for  a  few  minutes  he  would  wait,  and  take  it  all 
in — the  familiar  scene  so  full  of  content — and  think  how 
wonderful  it  was  to  have  it  before  his  eyes  again. 

He  sat  down  on  the  grass  against  the  wall  of  loose 
stones  that  ran  alongside  the  road,  and  pulled  Ben  to 
him,  who  panted  and  lolled  his  dripping  tongue  and  looked 
about  him  wondering  when  they  were  going  on  again. 

He  had  hardly  settled  himself  when  the  door  of  the 
house  opened,  and  there  was  Alison! 

She  looked  up  the  road,  shading  her  eyes  with  her 
hand  against  the  sun,  which  was  not  far  above  the  crest 
of  the  hill,  and  shone  straight  into  them.  She  did  not 
see  Pippin  against  the  wall,  and  he  would  have  sat  there 
for  a  moment  before  he  showed  himself,  because  emotion 


372  PIPPIN 

had  surged  up  in  him  at  her  appearance,  and  he  wanted 
to  look  at  this  new  Alison,  who  wore  the  body  of  the  old 
one.  Hut  Ben  barked  a  greeting,  and  ran  off  to  see 
whether  this  girl  who  had  just  come  out  was  friendly 
with  dogs.  Pippin  got  up  from  the  grass,  and  went  down 
the  hill  towards  her. 

She  met  him  at  the  gate  of  the  garden.  She  had  not 
hurried  her  steps,  but  she  caught  her  breath  a  little  as 
she  came  up  to  him,  and  a  light  sprang  into  her  eyes 
as  she  met  his.  Neither  of  them  spoke  until  they  had 
clasped  hands  and  kissed  each  other.  A  kiss  had  always 
been  their  cousinly  greeting,  but  Pippin  had  sometimes 
pretermitted  it  since  they  had  been  grown  up.  That  came 
to  his  mind  now,  and  he  wondered  at  himself  for  having 
neglected  his  privileges,  but  felt  a  keen  joy  in  their  re- 
sumption. 

It  was  Ben  who  brought  them  to  speech.  "If  you  love 
this  girl,  dear  master,  so  do  I.  As  you  are  slow  about 
introducing  me  to  her,  I'll  save  time  by  making  a  fuss 
of  her  myself.  She's  just  the  sort  I  like,  and  I'm  sure 
we  shall  get  on  well  together.'* 

Then  there  was  laughter  and  a  flood  of  words.  They 
went  into  the  orchard,  and  sat  on  a  bench  under  an  apple- 
tree.  They  had  parted  by  the  bridge,  in  full  view  of 
the  windows  of  the  house,  but  now  they  wanted  to  be  alone 
together. 

Pippin  told  her  of  the  plan  he  had  made  to  arouse  her 
from  sleep.  "And  then  you  came,"  he  said.  "I  could 
hardly  believe  my  eyes.  Did  you  expect  me,  at  this  hour?" 
"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "Somehow  I —  But,  yes, 
dear  Pippin,  I  felt  that  something  must  happen  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  couldn't  lie  in  bed.     How,  how  glad  I  am  to 


JOURNEY'S    END  373 

have  you  back !  But  I  mustn't  keep  you  long.  They 
are  expecting  you  at  home.  Your  father  said  you  would 
come  to-day." 

He  asked  after  his  father  and  mother.  "But  they 
won't  expect  me  yet  awhile,"  he  said,  wondering  how  he 
was  ever  to  leave  her,  even  to  see  his  home  and  his  parents. 

The  full  tale  of  his  adventures  could  not  be  told  at  this 
time,  but  he  gave  her  an  outline,  to  be  filled  up  in  count- 
less talks  later.  It  began  with  the  finding  of  Ben,  and 
that  led  to  his  accident,  and  the  rescue  that  Ben  had 
brought  about. 

Ben  had  forgotten  all  about  that  long  ago,  but  was 
pleased  to  be  talked  about,  and  to  receive  caresses  from 
Alison  as  well  as  from  his  master.  "Oh,  I've  looked  after 
him  for  you.  But  you  talk  to  him  now  while  I  go  to 
sleep.  Rouse  me  if  anything  happens  to  frighten  either 
of  you." 

Alison  said  that  Pippin  ought  to  have  written  home  at 
that  time,  and  he  told  her  that  that  was  what  Lydia 
had  said,  and  more  about  Lydia  and  her  grandmother, 
and  the  doctor.  Alison  added  them  all  to  her  list  of 
friends,  and  said  she  must  hear  much  more  about  them 
later. 

Pippin  made  an  amusing  tale  of  his  joining  the  circus, 
and  of  his  life  with  it.  Most  of  his  fellow-performers 
were  mentioned,  but  a  notable  exception  was  the  Countess 
de  Rimini.     There  was  not  time  to  mention  everybody. 

He  had  much  to  tell  about  his  life  in  the  city,  and  his 
friends  there,  but  his  entrance  to  it  was  barely  touched 
upon,  and  Alison  was  under  the  impression,  until  later, 
that  he  had  gone  at   once   to  Mrs.  Blunt's. 

He  told  her  of  his  two  meetings  with  the  Gentleman 


374  PIPPIN 

Tramp,  at  the  beginning  of  his  journey  and  towards  its 
end,  and  of  other  encounters  on  the  road,  one  story  lead- 
ing to  another,  and  the  narrative  jumping  all  over  the 
calendar  in  a  way  that  would  have  bewildered  her  if  it 
had  been  a  strict  chronology  that  she  wanted.  But  it 
is  only  men  who  are  particular  about  that,  in  any  tale 
they  tell  about  themselves,  and  it  is  well  known  that  most 
men  have  great  difficulty  in  recounting  their  adventures, 
leaving  out  so  much  that  a  woman  wants  to  know,  till 
at  the  end  of  it  they  are  often  said  to  have  told  nothing, 
or  alternatively  that  what  they  have  told  has  had  to  be 
dragged  out  of  them.  This  is  because  a  woman  wants 
to  get  at  the  heart  of  things,  when  she  loves  the  narrator, 
and  the  heart  of  his  adventures  to  her  is  the  way  he  bore 
himself  in  them. 

Alison  kept  her  eyes  upon  him  as  he  talked.  There 
had  been  a  little  shyness  between  them  at  the  first  greet- 
ing, but  that  had  passed.  They  were  now  completely 
happy  and  at  ease  with  one  another.  Many  emotions 
showed  themselves  on  her  face  as  she  listened  to  him,  and 
pride  in  him  was  not  the  least  of  them.  He  did  not  know 
that  many  of  her  questions  were  asked  to  test  him,  nor 
perhaps  did  she;  but  she  was  not  disappointed  in  his 
answers.  He  had  grown  to  man's  estate  since  he  had 
gone  off  to  see  the  world  a  year  before,  not  thinking 
much  about  anybody  but  himself  and  his  own  desires, 
of  good  stuff,  but  of  stuff  that  wanted  working  over 
and  proving,  if  he  were  to  grow  to  his  rightful  stature. 
She  wanted  the  tale  of  his  year,  in  as  full  detail  as  she 
could  get  it,  but  how  it  pleased  her  to  find  him  constantly 
breaking  off  in  it  to  talk  about  his  home!  He  wanted 
to  hear  all  about  their  Christmas  there,  and  whether  she 


JOURNEY'S   END  375 

had  thought  about  him  as  much  as  he  had  thought  about 
her  on  that  day ;  and  he  told  her,  apparently  as  an  after- 
thought, returning  to  the  subject  of  his  accident,  how 
he  had  thought  it  was  she  who  was  coming  to  him  when 
Lydia  found  him,  and  had  called  her  name.  It  was  this 
that  taught  her  how  she  would  have  to  prove  if  she 
wanted  to  hear  all  the  things  that  really  mattered  in  his 
adventures,  and  from  that  moment  a  confession  of  what 
had  driven  him  from  the  circus  became  only  a  question 
of  time,  though  it  was  not  made  that  morning  under  the 
apple-tree. 

It  ended  with  Pippin's  homecoming,  and  all  that  lay 
before  him  in  the  happy  future.  It  was  a  great  life 
that  he  would  be  leading  now,  with  his  work  on  the  land 
to  occupy  him,  and  the  innumerable  pleasures  and  satis- 
factions that  went  with  it.  And  Alison  would  be  part  of 
it  all,  as  she  had  always  been,  but  a  much  larger  part. 
There  was  nobody  else  who  would  understand  everything 
as  she  did,  and  to  whom  he  would  want  to  tell  every- 
thing, down  to  the  last  minute  detail. 

"I  haven't  ridden  a  horse  for  months,"  said  Pippin, 
"but  I  shall  keep  Captain  busy  coming  over  to  see  you, 
and  I  think  I  shall  buy  another  horse.  I  wish  you  didn't 
live  so  far  off,  Alison.  But  when  I  am  twenty-one  we  will 
be  married,  and  then  we  shall  always  be  together." 

She  laughed  at  that.  "You  haven't  asked  me  yet,"  she 
said,  but  without  a  trace  of  coquetry. 

He  took  her  hand,  and  they  looked  at  one  another, 
searching  for  what  lay  behind  the  windows  of  the  eye. 
Then  they  kissed.  It  was  a  sweeter  kiss  even  than  the 
kiss  of  greeting  had  been. 

A  bell  rang  in  the  house.     Pippin  would  have  gone  in 


.'376  PIPPIN 

with  her  to  breakfast,  but  she  would  not  let  him.  It 
was  natural  that  he  should  have  seen  her  first — her  home 
was  on  the  way  to  his — but  his  parents  must  come  before 
others.  "Your  dear  mother  has  never  ceased  saying  what 
a  dreadful  thing  it  was  that  you  went  away,"  she  told 
him ;  "and  perhaps  you  would  never  come  back.  But  your 
father  has  always  said  that  it  was  the  best  thing  for 
you,  and  that  you  would  come  back  directly  the  year 
was  up,  and  not  want  to  go  away  again.  So  you  must 
go  to  them  now,  and  your  mother  will  be  very  phased 
that  he  was  right  and  she  was  wrong,  though  perhaps 
she  will  not  admit  that  he  was  right." 

She  watched  him  down  the  road,  standing  concealed 
so  that  he  should  not  know  that  she  was  watching  him. 
He  walked  with  a  strong  and  springy  step,  his  shoulders 
squared  and  his  head  held  high.  She  thought  she  heard 
him  singing  to  himself,  and  there  was  no  doubt  that  he 
was  at  the  summit  of  happiness.  A  very  proper  man  he 
was,  worthy  of  all  a  woman's  love  and  trust.  Joy  and 
pride  in  him  filled  her  heart  with  a  happiness  as  deep 
as  his. 

She  lost  him  in  the  dip  of  the  road,  but  waited  for 
him  to  come  into  sight  again,  and  kept  her  eyes  upon 
the  lessening  figure  of  her  lover,  and  the  black  dot  that 
was  Ben,  until  they  topped  the  hill  and  disappeared. 
And  then  there  was  nothing  more  to  stay  for,  and  she 
went  back  to  the  house. 


THE    END 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


H 'L  3  J  1947 


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